‘Iss, fy, and good fish among ’em. That’s a heavy fish goin’ up now. He’ll do it; no, he won’t, he an’t. That basin is like Malachi’s hen, too high in the instep. I said it was when they were puttin’ un in.’
As the miller took no notice, he bellowed in his ear, ‘Custna hear what I’m sayin’, you?’
‘Hear! Of course I can; I’m not deef. Hear, indeed! Thee wust drown the roar of a dozen floods, thee wust! What have ’ee got to say?’
‘Why, only this, that he’ll be up afore long.’
‘What do ’ee mean by he?’
‘What do I mean? What can a man mean these days but one thing?’
‘How teasy you are.’
‘Teasy, indeed! Do ’ee wonder at it? That varmint has got on my nerves. I’m always thinkin’ about un, I caan’t sleep for’n, and if I do, I see un in my dreams. Most like he will come up; and I hope and trust he will, and that the hounds will find and kill un, or what’ll become of the parish I don’t know. From the squire to Tom Burn-the-Reed we’re gettin’ in a poor way, and you the one man gettin’ any good out of it.’
When the flood began to fall the otter did come up, and the first night spent hour after hour, to no purpose, chasing salmon in the pool below the rapids. At dawn he climbed to the ivy-covered branch of a tree overhanging the river, to sleep as well as his uncomfortable quarters allowed. That night he killed in the Kieve; early in the morning the moorman disturbed a pair of buzzards from the remains of his feast, and tried to cross to look for tracks; but the current was dangerous, and after being nearly washed off his feet he turned back. The river had not yet fallen to hunting level; but as soon as it had, the bailiff, the miller and all the others were out again, confident that the otter was up and, despite previous failures, hopeful that they would come on his track on one of the many new sand-spits left by the receding waters.