At the last clause of this speech—its Conservatism due to a certain professional jealousy—the Hussar officer cannot resist smiling. He had half forgiven the rudeness of the revellers—attributing it to intoxication—and more than half repented of his threat to bring them to a reckoning, which might not be called for, but might, and in all likelihood would be inconvenient. Now, reflecting on Wingate’s words, the frown which had passed from off his face again returns to it. He says nothing, however, but sits rod in hand, less thinking of the salmon than how he can chastise the “damned scoun’rels,” as his companion has pronounced them, should he, as he anticipates, again come in collision with them.
“Lissen!” exclaims the waterman; “that’s them shoutin’! Comin’ this way, I take it. What should we do to ’em, Captain?”
The salmon fisher is half determined to reel in his line, lay aside the rod, and take out a revolving pistol he chances to have in his pocket—not with any intention to fire it at the fellows, but only frighten them.
“Yes,” goes on Wingate, “they be droppin’ down again—sure; I dar’ say, they’ve found the tide a bit too strong for ’em up above. An’ I don’t wonder; sich louty chaps as they thinkin’ they cud guide a boat ’bout the Wye! Jist like mountin’ hogs a-horseback!”
At this fresh sally of professional spleen the soldier again smiles, but says nothing, uncertain what action he should take, or how soon he may be called on to commence it. Almost instantly after he is called on to take action, though not against the four riotous Foresters, but a silly salmon, which has conceived a fancy for his fly. A purl on the water, with a pluck quick succeeding, tells of one on the hook, while the whizz of the wheel and rapid rolling out of catgut proclaims it a fine one.
For some minutes neither he nor his oarsman has eye or ear for aught save securing the fish, and both bend all their energies to “fighting” it. The line runs out, to be spun up and run off again; his river majesty, maddened at feeling himself so oddly and painfully restrained in his desperate efforts to escape, now rushing in one direction, now another, all the while the angler skilfully playing him, the equally skilled oarsman keeping the boat in concerted accordance.
Absorbed by their distinct lines of endeavour they do not hear high words, mingled with exclamations, coming from above; or hearing, do not heed, supposing them to proceed from the four men they had met, in all likelihood now more inebriated than ever. Not till they have well-nigh finished their “fight,” and the salmon, all but subdued, is being drawn towards the boat—Wingate, gaff in hand, bending over ready to strike it. Not till then do they note other sounds, which even at that critical moment make them careless about the fish, in its last feeble throes, when its capture is good as sure, causing Ryecroft to stop winding his wheel, and stand listening.
Only for an instant. Again the voices of men, but now also heard the cry of a woman, as if she sending it forth were in danger or distress!
They have no need for conjecture, nor are they long left to it. Almost simultaneously they see a boat sweeping round the bend, with another close in its wake, evidently in chase, as told by the attitudes and gestures of those occupying both—in the one pursued two young ladies, in that pursuing four rough men readily recognisable. At a glance the Hussar officer takes in the situation—the waterman as well. The sight saves a salmon’s life, and possibly two innocent women from outrage. Down goes Ryecroft’s rod, the boatman simultaneously dropping his gaff; as he does so hearing thundered in his ears—
“To yours oars, Jack! Make straight for them! Row with all your might!”