This last in Mr Macalister’s weary accents, and a loud groan of disapproval from the younger members of the party testified to the unpopularity of the idea.
“Oh, Mr Macalister, no! How horribly prosaic! It’s just because we do use it at home that we couldn’t think of it in a fairy dell. It’s a thousand times more romantic to use faggots.”
“Well, well! It’s a matter of taste. I should say a spirit lamp was as romantic as smoked water; but don’t mind me, don’t mind me! I have no call to interfere—”
“Mr Macalister was always a very handy man about the house. If anything went wrong with the kitchen range, I would say to the girl, ‘Wait till your master comes home!’ As long as he had his health we never sent for a workman. There’s very few could lay a fire better than he, if he took the trouble—”
“Tuts, tuts!” Mr Macalister frowned darkly at the faithful wife who so loyally chanted his praises, then, turning on his heel, paced solemnly down the dell. The Chieftain seized a sheet of the Glasgow Herald and vigorously fanned the dying flame; Margot coughed, choked, and spluttered before the clouds of smoke, and retreated in dismay to the more distant fire which George Elgood was sheltering with an open umbrella. Behind the impromptu tent he knelt, poking gingerly at the smouldering wood, but at Margot’s approach he sat back on his feet, lifting to hers a laughing, boyish face.
“No go! The wretched thing won’t light! How is Geoff getting on?”
“Your brother?” It was the first time that Margot had heard the Chieftain called by his Christian name, and it struck her as wonderfully appropriate for so bright and happy a personality. “He isn’t getting on at all! His measures are more drastic than yours, and he is at present occupied in fanning smoke into every one’s face, and knocking down sticks wholesale in the process. My hopes of tea are dwindling into the far distance—”
“What about grilled trout?” queried the Editor, pointing with a grimy finger at his own travesty of a fire. “At this rate, it seems as if we should have to come down to buns and milk; in which case I should never again be able to hold up my head before Mrs McNab. She told me that it was madness to think of cooking fish in the open.”
“But it isn’t, and it shan’t be, and we’ll make up our minds that we will!” cried Margot gaily. “Let us build up a little grate of stones, on which the pan can rest, and lay more faggots round the outside, to get warm and crisp before they are needed. We must keep the flame as clear as possible, so you can go on feeding it gently, while I attend to the fish. Big stones! We must pick them carefully from the side of the stream. The little ones are no use. I’ll go!”
“No, no! I’ll go!” He sprang to his feet as he spoke, and the umbrella, loosed from its moorings, pitched promptly forward, and alighted in the middle of the fire. There was only the tiniest of flickering flames, but, after the contrary nature of things, though it had scorned to undertake the grilling of trout, it seemed eager to seize upon twilled black silk, and to scorch it into a hole. Margot squealed; George Elgood pounced and stamped and dragged, until the ground was scattered over with smoking faggots, and the last pretence of fire had disappeared.