“Nay, Maister Kenneth, I winna gie him a taste. Ye’ll be takkin’ a wee drap yersel’, I’m thenking?”
“Not I, Tavvy. Now then, it’s a twenty-five pounder, isn’t it?”
Tavish wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, gazing thoughtfully down at the salmon, after which he laid the butt of one of the fishing-rods beside it, and compared the captive with a nick on the side before drawing a piece of knotted string from his sporran, which had to be taken off and drained, for it was half full of water.
“Nay,” he said, as he knelt on one knee, after measuring the girth of the fish with great deliberation, “I said twa-an’-twenty pun’, Maister Ken, but I’ll gie ye anither pun’. She’s three-an’-twenty pun’ barely.”
“Five-and-twenty, Tavvy!”
“Nay, sir, three-an’-twenty, and not an ounce ower, and the laddie’s caught the best fush this year. Noo then, I’m thenking I can show him where there’s anither. Ye’ll lend her your rod?”
“Oh yes. Here you are, Max!”
“I think I would rather go home and change my wet things,” said Max.
“Nivver mind a drap o’ watter, laddie. Watter like this winna gie you cauld. Have a gude rin, and then—”
“Not to-day, Tav,” said Kenneth. “We’re all wet through, so let’s go back. Who’s going to carry the twenty-five pound salmon?”