Chapter Nine.
A Quiet Day with a Stirring Termination.
What fisher does not know the charm, the calm delight, of a quiet day by the river-side, after, it may be, months of too much contact with society? On such an occasion a congenial comrade is an advantage, but unless the comrade be congenial, one is better alone.
This may sound selfish to some ears, but is it really so? When a man has all but immolated himself for ten or eleven months, it may be, on the altar of business, art, and social duty, is a tremendous thirst for Nature and solitude altogether selfish? We think not. And evidently MacRummle thought not, as he wandered one soft, delightful morning, rod in hand, down to the river-side.
The river-side! There is something restfully suggestive in the very words. The quiet pools, the gurgling deeps, the rushing rapids, the rippling shallows, the little cascades—what ardent hopes, what wild suggestions, what grand possibilities these have for the young; what gentle excitations, what pleasant, even though sad, memories for the old!
Of course the non-fisher knows nothing of all this. His terrestrial joys are limited, poor thing! The painter, indeed, has some part in the matter—as regards his own line, so to speak—and when he goes on what is vulgarly termed his own hook. We have profound sympathy with the painter. But for the poor fellow who neither fishes nor paints, alas! To be sure he may botanise. Strange to say, we had almost forgotten that! and also geologise; but our concern at present is with fishers, or, rather, with that fishing enthusiast, MacRummle.
The sunshine of his face was second only to that of Nature. His visage beamed with satisfaction; his eyes gleamed with hope, as he sat down on the bank near to his first pool, and began to select flies.
We have probably given the impression that MacRummle was alone, but this is not strictly correct. In his own estimation he was, indeed, in absolute solitude, and, so far, his felicity was unbroken; but his steps had been dogged that morning, and the dogger was Junkie.
That eccentric youngster possessed a mind which it is not easy to analyse or describe. One strong element in it, however, was curiosity. Another was ambition. The blending of these two qualities produced wonder in Junkie—wonder that he, though as ardent a sportsman as MacRummle, should go forth frequently to fish and catch little or nothing, while the old gentleman went out and was wont to return with baskets full to overflowing. There must be a secret of some sort. He did not like to ask what that secret was, so he made up his mind to follow the old man and watch him—not of course with the slightest intention of doing anything sly or wrong, but secretly, because he was well aware that MacRummle did not like to be distracted by company—especially his company!