"What you want first of all," said he, "is to regulate the water-supply. At present when I go to a salmon-river, one of two things is certain to happen: either it's in roaring flood, and quite unfishable, or else—and this is the more common—it has dwindled away all to nothing, and you might as well begin and throw a fly over a pavement in Piccadilly. Very well; what you want is to turn the mountain-lochs into reservoirs; you bank up the surplus water in the hills; and then, in times of drought, when the river has got low, and would be otherwise unfishable, you send up the keepers to the sluices, turn on a supply, and freshen the pools, so that the fish wake up, and wonder what's going to happen. That is one thing. Then there's another. You know that even when the water is in capital order, you may go down day by day, and find it impossible to get a single cast because of the blazing sunlight. That is a terrible misfortune; for you are all the time aware, as you sit on the bank, and hopelessly watch for clouds, that the fine weather is drying up the hills, and that very soon the stream will have dwindled away again. Very well; what you want for that is en enormous awning, that can be moved from pool to pool, and high enough not to interfere with the casting. By that means, you see, you could transfer any portion of a Highland stream into the land where it is always afternoon; and the fish, thinking the cool of the evening had already come, would begin to disport themselves and play with the pretty little coloured things that the current brought down. Look at the saving of time! Generally, in the middle of the day, there is a horrible long interval when nothing will move in a river. Whether it is the heat, or the sunlight, or the general drowsiness of nature, there's hardly ever anything stirring between twelve o'clock and four; and you lie on the bank, and consume a frightful amount of tobacco; and you may even fall asleep, if you have been doing a good deal of night-work in London. But if you have this great canvas screen, that can be stretched from the trees on one side to the poles on the other—very gradually and slowly, like the coming over of the evening—then the little fishes will begin to say to themselves, 'Here, boys, it's time to go out and have some fun,' and you can have fine sport, in spite of all the sunlight that ever blazed. However, I'm afraid you'd want the revenue of some half-a-dozen dukes before you could secure the ideal salmon-river."
"They're doing so many things with electricity now: couldn't you bring that in?" said Käthchen. "Couldn't you have an electric shock running out from the butt of the rod the moment the salmon touched the fly?"
But this was sheer frivolity. Frank Meredyth suddenly turned to young Ross and said—
"Oh, you can tell me, Mr. Ross—is the Garra a difficult river to fish?"
Now this was a perfectly innocent question—not meant as a trap at all; but Fred Stanley, whose mind had been brooding over the fact that the poacher was actually sitting at table with them, looked startled, and even frightened. Young Ross, on the other hand, appeared in no wise disconcerted.
"Really, I can hardly tell you," he said, "I am not much of a fisherman myself—there is no fishing at all on Heimra Island. But I should say it was not a very difficult river. Perhaps some of the pools under the woods—just above the bridge, I mean, where the banks are steep—might be a little awkward; but further up it is much opener; and further up still you come to long stretches where there isn't a bush on either side."
"Then, perhaps, you can't tell me what are the best sea-trout flies for this water?" was the next question—with no evil intent in it.
"I'm afraid you would find me an untrustworthy guide," said Donald Ross. "If I were you I would take Hector's advice."
So there was an end of this matter—and Fred Stanley was much relieved. What he said to himself was this: "If that Spaniard-looking fellow is lying, he has a splendid nerve and can do it well. A magnificent piece of cheek—if it is so!"
On the whole, at this unpretentious little banquet, Frank Meredyth did most of the talking; and naturally it was addressed in the first place to Miss Stanley as being at the head of the table. He had had a considerable experience of country houses; he was gifted with a certain sense of humour; and he told his stories fairly well—Käthchen rewarding him now and again with a covert little giggle. As for Donald Ross, he sate silent, and reserved, and attentive. He was distinctly the stranger. Not that he betrayed any embarrassment, or was ill at ease; but he seemed to prefer to listen, especially when Mary Stanley happened to be speaking. For, indeed, more than once she let the others go their own way, and turned to him, and engaged him in conversation with herself alone. She found herself timid in doing so. If his manner was always most respectful—and even submissive—his eyes looked uncompromisingly straight at her, and they had a strange, subdued fire in them. When she happened to find his gaze thus fixed on her, she would suddenly grow nervous—stammer—perhaps even forget what she had been saying; while the joyous chatter of the other three at table went gaily on, fortunately for her. Sometimes she would think it was hardly fair of those others to leave her alone in this way: then again she would remind herself that it was she who was responsible for her guest.