Tavish was terribly low-spirited.
“Ta pools are fu’ o’ saumont,” he would say, “and there’s naebody to catch them, for the hand that throws a flee better nor ta whole wurrld lies low. Ye’ll came and catch a saumont, Maister Max? Ta Chief said she was to shoot and fush, and have ta poat when she liked. Ye’ll came the morning?”
“No, Tavish; I can’t leave Kenneth; perhaps he’ll want me to read to him.”
“Rest? wha’s ta use o’ reating to ta laddie? If it was na for ta toctor, wha’s a clever chiel’ wi ta rod, what should we do?”
For the doctor stayed on, combining pleasure with work, seeing Kenneth two or three times a day, and fishing in the intervals.
“I shall never be able to repay you for your kindness, Curzon,” said The Mackhai one morning.
“My dear sir,” said the doctor, “you pay me every day. I never lived better; I never had a more comfortable room; and I never had better fishing.”
“You are satisfied?”
“Satisfied! My dear sir, I am congratulating myself every hour upon my luck in being able to exchange my poor services for such comfortable quarters and excellent sport.”
“Kenneth owes his life to you, and I shall never be sufficiently grateful.”