“Here!” he cried, dashing his rod on the grass; “I don’t stand language like that from anyone!”
Off went his coat, and he struck Craig a well-aimed blow under the chin that quite staggered him.
Ah! but even skill at fifty is badly matched by the strength and agility of a man in his twenties. In five minutes’ time Fletcher was on the grass, his face cut and his nose dripping with blood.
Craig stood over him triumphantly, but the devil still lurked in his eyes.
“I’m done with you for the time,” said Fletcher, “but mark me, I’ll do for you yet!”
“Is that threatening my life, you old reprobate? You did so before, too. Come,” he continued fiercely, “I will help you to wash some of that blood off your ugly face.”
He seized him as he spoke, and threw him far into the river.
The stream was not deep, so the Laird got out, and went slowly away to a neighbouring cottage to dry his clothes and send for his carriage.
“Hang it!” said Craig aloud; “I can’t fish to-day.”
He put up his rod, and was just leaving, when Shufflin’ Sandie came upon the scene. He had heard and seen all.