Far below them, toward where the rugged hollow opened out to allow of the escape of the water from the falls, Tavish and Long Shon could be seen, seated on the stones they had chosen, smoking their pipes and basking in company with the dogs, for the warm rays of a sunny day had of late been rare.
“There’s a teal o’ watter in the fa’s,” said Scoodrach gravely.
“Of course there is, stupid, after this rain,” cried Kenneth. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
“Couldn’t tell her nothing she don’t know,” cried Scoodrach. “She reats books, and goes to school, and learns efferything.”
“That’s just what the masters say I don’t do, Scoody. Here, let’s go down to the basin.”
“What! get down there?” cried Max in horror, as Kenneth seated himself on the edge of the stony channel through which the water came down from the mountain before making its leap.
“Yes; it’s easy enough,” cried Kenneth, dangling his legs to and fro, and making them brush through the fronds of a beautiful fern growing in a crevice. “Scoody and I have often been down.”
“But she shall not go pelow now,” said the young gillie, looking down at the smooth, glassy current. “There’s chust too much watter in ta way.”
“Get out!” cried Kenneth. “Look here, Max: you can get down here to the edge of the water, and follow it to where it makes its first leap, and then get under it to the other side, and clamber on to the edge of the basin where it spreads, and look down. It’s glorious. Come on.”
“Na, she will not come,” cried Scoodrach. “There’s too much watter.”