His Christian name was Richard. No one would have presumed to call him Dick but himself.
No result following this appeal to the tail of the swirl, he sat down on the bank and once more changed his hook. The nature of change might have been heard by the insects among the heather close by, if they were listening, for Donald whispered to his companion,—“He’s coin’ to try pait!”
“Didn’t I bid ye hau’d your tongue?”
“Ay.”
“Do’t then.”
MacRummle dropped a worm gently into the head of the pool, and let it go with the current. Instantly the line straightened, the rod bent, the reel spun, and from the other side of the pool there leaped a lovely bar of silver, which fell back to its native element with a considerable splash.
“A two-pounder!” gasped Donald, unable to restrain his excitable spirit, as he half rose.
Junkie had him by the throat in a moment, and crammed his ragged head down among the heather.
“Tonal’!” he whispered remonstratively.
“I forgot,” whispered Donald, when the strong little hands relaxed. “I’ll not do’t again.”