“I would,” Jim said. “There, it’s a bargain, Timsy.” So Timsy accepted the tweed knickerbockers as necessary evils, and peace reigned.
As for the trout, they had remained in peace. Patsy Burke had given the Australians a few lessons in throwing a fly, a gentle art to which they did not take very kindly, though they proved apt enough pupils. But the trout were not rising, and they found it dull. Their previous experience had been either the primitive method of a stick, a string, and a worm, in the creeks at home, or a deep-sea hand-line with a substantial bait and a heavy sinker. They liked these peaceful ways, and to them the incessant business of casting seemed, in the Australian phrase, “too much like hard work.” They endeavoured, however, to keep this view from the scandalized Mr. Burke, whose scorn at the mere mention of a hand-line was almost painful to witness.
In defence of their apathy, it must be admitted that the sport was poor. The weather had been unfavourable, and the brown trout declined to rise; but even in the best of years Lough Aniller, the big lough by the house, was not a good fishing lake. A few rises came to them, which they missed: and they had the poor satisfaction of beholding Mr. Burke land a specimen which weighed not quite a quarter of a pound. It did not seem, to untutored eyes quite worth the candle.
“ ’Tis a poor lake, anyways,” Mr. Burke said. They were paddling home in the setting sun, the water full of bright reflections. “I dunno why the trout wouldn’t be in it: it’s the biggest hereabouts, but they don’t seem wishful for it at all. There’s Lough Nacurra and Lough Anoor—they’re little enough, but you’d get finer fishing in them in a day than in a week of Lough Aniller.”
“Why don’t we go there?” spoke Wally, lazily.
“There’s no reason in the world why you shouldn’t. Sure, they’re no distance, and the fishing belongs to the house; there’ll not be a rod on them, barring your own.”
“What do they mean, Patsy?” Norah asked. Mr. Burke was her instructor in the Irish language, and she thirsted for translations of each unknown word.
“Lough Anoor’s the lough of the gold, miss, and Lough Nacurra’s the lough of the Champions. I dunno why they have those names on them; there’s a lot of ould stories goin’. Whatever reason anybody was to give, no one could say it was wrong.”
“Well, Lough Aniller means the lough of the Eagle, you said, Patsy, but there don’t seem any eagles about.”
“Thrue for ye,” agreed Mr. Burke; “they do not. But I wouldn’t wonder if there was any amount of them here in the ould ancient times.” He scanned the placid waters with disfavour. “There’s one thing they couldn’t call it, and that’s Nabrack—the lough of the Trout!”