Down went the boys’ heads, that they might explode their laughter as softly as possible among the roots of the heather.
“Wass it not funny?” whispered Donald.
“I hope he’s not hurt,” replied Junkie, raising his head cautiously.
He saw that MacRummle had risen, and, with a rueful expression of face, was making insane and futile efforts to look at himself behind. A beaming smile overspread the boy’s face as he glanced at his companion, for he knew well that the old gentleman cared little or nothing for water. And this was obviously the case, for, after squeezing as much water out of his nether garments as chose to come, he proceeded to the head of the runs and resumed fishing.
“I’m beginnin’ to see through’t,” murmured Junkie, after watching for some time. “See! he has hooked another. Ye see, Tonal’, it must be lettin’ the hook drift away down under the ledges that does it. Look! He’s got ’im!”
“I’m thinking ye are right, Junkie. An’ the creat thing to know iss where the ledges lie. He keeps well back from the watter also. There maun be somethin’ in that, what-ë-ver. Ye wull be tryin’ it yoursel’ the morn, maype.”
To this Junkie vouchsafed no reply, for the fisher, having secured his fish, was proceeding further up stream. When he was sufficiently far in advance, the boys rose to their feet, and again followed him.
Thus the trio occupied themselves all the forenoon—MacRummle gradually filling his basket with fine sea-trout, Junkie storing his inquisitive mind with piscatorial knowledge and “dodges,” and Donald enjoying himself in the mere act of wallowing about in heather and sunshine.
About noon MacRummle suddenly ceased to gaze intently on the water, and placed his hand upon his waistcoat.
“Time, Dick?” he murmured, pulling out his watch. “I knew it. Commend me to nature. It’s the best time-keeper, after all—needs no regulating.”