“Ta fush weighs three-an’-twenty pun’ and nae mair, Maister Kenneth.”
“Ah, well, we’ll see as soon as we get back,” said Kenneth; and back they tramped to Long Shon’s bothy, that worthy sitting at the door smoking a pipe, and smiling broadly as he saw his son approaching with the goodly fish, the circulation brought by the walk having chased away the sensation of cold.
“Here, Shon, weigh this fish,” cried Kenneth imperiously.
“Ask Tavish,” was the reply. “He’ll tell you to a pound, sir.”
“I tell you I want you to weigh it,” cried Kenneth and Shon rose to his feet, to stand not much higher than he sat, and, taking the fish, he bore it into the place where he cut up and packed the haunches of venison. There the capture was hung upon one of the hooks of the steelyard.
“Now, Tavish, look,” cried Kenneth triumphantly. “Five-and-twenty pounds if it’s an ounce.”
“Three-an’-twenty, and hardly that,” said Tavish firmly. “Noo, Shon, what does she scale?”
“Twa-an’-twenty pun’ an’ three-quairters,” said Long Shon.
“Oh!” exclaimed Kenneth, in a disappointed tone.
“An’ ta finest fush o’ the season, laddie,” cried Tavish triumphantly. “And noo, if ye winna hae a drappie, go and tak’ aff the wat claes, for too much watter is bad for a man, even if the watter’s coot.”