The Eagle Cliff

by R. M. Ballantyne

“Ye better no’,” returned Junkie, with a shake of his fist that required no explanation.

By this time the fish had darted like a lightning flash twice up stream, once down, three times across, and twice into the air. At the same time the fisher had hurried up and down the bank, had tripped over two stumps and a root, had dropped his wideawake, and had very nearly gone head foremost into the pool; for his tackle was fine and his fish large. The fisher-boy gasped.

“Tonal’,” said Junkie, in very low tones, “if ye don’t behave better, I’ll send ye away.”

“It iss not easy, but I’ll try,” said he.

Donald could say no more. The best of men or boys could do no more than try. We may as well say here at once, however, that his efforts at self-control were crowned with success. He proved himself to be a great man in embryo by ruling his own spirit that day.

In a few minutes the trout was landed by means of a miniature gaff, which the fisher carried in his basket, for the purpose of securing fish that were too heavy to be pulled out by the line. It was afterwards found to be a two-and-a-half pounder, which, being an unusually good fish for that stream, was the occasion of much rejoicing on the part of the old gentleman, as he stood wiping his forehead and commenting on it.

“Capital! Not had such a fellow as that for more than a week. There’s more where that came from; but you must give the pool a rest, Dick. Try the run higher up.”

In obedience to his own orders, MacRummle went up to a part of the stream where a high cliff on one side and a steepish bank on the other caused it to flow in a deep channel, not much more than a couple of yards wide. At the head of the run was a ledge where fish were invariably captured. Towards this spot the old man hurried eagerly.

The two boys lay still in the heather, allowed him to pass, and then softly followed, bending low, and keeping as much as possible behind bushes and in hollows, until they were again close upon him. Ensconcing themselves in a convenient mass of heather, they raised their heads and saw the fisher stepping carefully from rock to rock, as he approached the run.

Rounded boulders, large or small, are never safe to walk on, even for the young and active. MacRummle found it so. His foot slipped, and he sat down, with undignified haste, in a small pool of water.