“Let me land it,” cried Max; and, taking the net, he held it as he had seen Scoodrach perform the same operation a score of times.
“All right!” cried Kenneth. “He’s a beauty; pound and a half, I know. Now then—right under.”
Kenneth’s elastic rod was bent nearly double, as Max leaned forward, and, instead of lowering the net well into the water so that the fish might glide into it, he made an excited poke, and struck the fish with the ring; there was a faint whish as the rod suddenly straightened; a splash as the trout flapped the water with its tail and went off free, and Max and Kenneth stared at each other.
“She couldna hae done tat,” muttered Scoodrach.
“Yes, you could, stupid!” said Kenneth, glad of some one upon whom he could vent his spleen. “You’ve knocked ever so many fish off that way.”
“I’m very, very sorry,” said Max humbly.
“That won’t bring back the trout,” grumbled Kenneth. “Never mind, old chap, I’ll soon have another. Why don’t you go on throwing?”
“Because I am stupid over it. I shall never throw a fly properly.”
“Not if you give up without trying hard. Go on and have another good turn. Whip away. It’ll come easier soon.”
Max went on whipping away, but his success was very small, for he grew more and more nervous as he saw that Scoodrach flinched every time he made a cast, as if the hook had come dangerously near his eyes.