Mac sat there, dreamily.
"I mind a time when I was fishing, once," he said, and named a spot he knew I'd never seen. "Ah, man, Harry, but it was the grand day's sport we had that day! There was an old, great trout that every fisherman in those parts had been after for twa summers. Many had hooked him, but he'd got clean awa'. I had no thocht of seeing him, even. But by and by I felt a great pull on my line—and, sure enow, it was he, the big fellow!"
"That was rare luck, Mac," I said, wondering a little. Had Mac been overmodest, before, when he had said he was no great angler? Or was he——? Aweel, no matter. I'll let him tell his tale.
"Man, Harry," he went on, "can ye no see the ithers? They were excited. All offered me advice. But they never thocht that I could land him. I didna mysel'—he was a rare fish, that yin! Three hours I fought wi' him, Harry! But I brocht him ashore at last. And, Harry, wad ye guess what he weighed?"
I couldna, and said so. But I was verra thochtfu'.
"Thirty-one pounds," said Mac, impressively.
"Thirty-one pounds? Did he so?" I said, duly impressed. But I was still thochtfu', and Mac looked at me.
"Wasna he a whopper, Harry?" he asked. I think he was a wee bit disappointed, but he had no cause—I was just thinking.
"Aye," I said. "Deed an' he was, Mac. Ye were prood, the day, were ye no? I mind the biggest fish ever I caught. I wasna fit to speak to the Duke o' Argyle himsel' that day!"
"How big was yours?" asked Mac, and I could see he was angry wi' himself. Do ye mind the game the wee yins play, of noughts and crosses? Whoever draws three noughts or three crosses in a line wins, and sometimes it's for lettin' the other have last crack that ye lose. Weel, it was like a child who sees he's beaten himself in that game that Mac looked then.