“I shall make you so wet,” he said apologetically.
“Ant ta whusky’ll mak’ us poth try,” cried Tavish, laughing. “Why, ye’re tied up in a knot, laddie, and ye’ve proke ta pest rod; and pring it along, Scoody lad, and ton’t get ta line roond ta stanes.”
“I’m very sorry I broke the rod,” said Max apologetically again.
“Nivver mind ta rod; it’s her nainsel’ as can ment any rod. We’ve caught a wunnerfu’ saumon, laddie. She’s a gran’ fush. There, noo, we’ll get ye oot o’ the tangle. What is she, Maister Kenneth—twa-an’-twenty pun’?”
“Five-and-twenty,” cried Kenneth, as Max was deposited on the grass.
“Na, na; twa-an’-twenty pun’. I ken the size,” cried Tavish. “Noo, laddie, stan’ still; and you, Scoody, tak’ a haud of the reel, and walk roond and roond till ye get all the line, and wind her up as ye go.”
Scood took the reel, and went round, releasing Max from the bonds the river had thrown about him in rolling him over and over, after which he forgot his dripping state, and walked to where the salmon lay.
“Ye’ll tak’ joost a sma’ taste, sir, to keep oot ta cold,” said the forester, offering the cup from the bottom of the flask to Max, who shook his head.
“Mebbe ye’re richt,” said Tavish, tossing off the spirit; “it’s a fine hailsome trink for a grown man, but—Na, na, Scood, if ye’re thirsty, laddie, there’s plenty coot watter in the river.”
“Yes, don’t give Scoody any,” said Kenneth.