In a few minutes they came to the first practicable pool—a wide, rippling, oily, deep hole, caused by a bend in the stream, the appearance of which—suggestive of silvery scales—was well calculated to arouse sanguine hopes in a salmon fisher.
Here Quin proceeded to put together the pieces of his master’s rod, while Jackman, opening a portly fishing-book, selected a casting line and fly.
“Have you been in India, too?” asked Junkie of Quin, as he watched their proceedings with keen interest.
“Sure, an’ I have—leastways if it wasn’t dhreamin’ I’ve bin there.”
“An’ have you killed lions, and tigers, and elephants?”
“Well, not exactly, me boy, but it’s meself as used to stand by an’ howld the spare guns whin the masther was killin’ them.”
“Wasn’t you frightened?”
“Niver a taste. Och! thriflin’ craters like them niver cost me a night’s rest, which is more than I can say of the rats in Kinlossie, anyhow.”
A little shriek of laughter burst from Junkie on hearing this.
“What are ye laughin’ at, honey?” asked Quin.