“Scood—die!” he shouted as soon as he was outside, and there was an answering yell, followed by the pat pat of footsteps as the lad came running up.
Tavish bent down as if he were going to crawl as he came out of the door.
“Why, you stoop like an old goose coming out of a barn, Tavvy,” cried Kenneth, laughing. “How particular you are over that old figurehead of yours.”
“Well, she’s only got one head, Master Kenneth; and plows on the top are not coot for a man.”
“Never mind, come along. Here, Scood, get two rods and the basket. You’ll find the fly-book and the gaff on the shelf.”
“I have a fishing-rod—a new one,” said Max excitedly.
“Oh! ah! so you have,” replied Kenneth. “Never mind, we’ll try that another day. Can you throw a fly?”
“I think so,” said Max dubiously. “I never tried, though.”
The big forester stared down at him, as he drew a blue worsted cap of the kind known as Glengarry from his waist, where it had been hanging to the handle of a hunting-knife or dirk, and, as he slowly put it on over his shaggy brown hair, his fine eyes once more seemed to laugh.
“He’ll catch one, Tavvy, a forty-pounder, eh?” cried Kenneth, giving the forester a merry look.