"Keeping up those friendly relations, or apparently friendly relations, with this fellow Ross," Fred Stanley said. "Wouldn't it be very much better, much honester, if we were declared enemies—as the people about here think we are? Then we could give fair notice to the keepers that they must either have him watched or they themselves must go. You see, my sister doesn't care what happens to the fishing or the shooting; but it is a shame she should be imposed upon; and a still greater shame that this fellow should come to the house, and pretend to be on friendly terms with her. You know, Frank, he must be a thundering hypocrite. Do you mean to tell me he has forgiven any one of our family for what my uncle did—you know what Mamie told you—draining the loch and pulling down the old castle? Of course he hasn't! And perhaps I don't blame him: it was too bad; and that's a fact. But what I do blame him for is pretending to be on good terms; coming to the house; and so taking it out of our power to treat him as he ought to be treated—that is, as a person who is defying the law, whom we ought to try to catch. You see, Mamie is so soft; she hasn't that dimple in her cheek for nothing; she's far too good-natured; and this stuck-up Spaniard, or Portuguese, or whatever he is, seems to have impressed her because he looks mysterious and says nothing. Or perhaps she thinks that we have ill-treated him—that my uncle has, I mean. Or perhaps she hopes that through him she will get at those ill-conditioned brutes about here—you heard what Purdie said. I don't know; I can't make out women; they're not sufficiently aboveboard for the humble likes of me; but this I do know, that I should like to catch that fellow Ross red-handed, carrying a salmon or a brace of grouse, and then we should have it out!"
Frank Meredyth did not reply to this resentful little oration: he had been watching the westering sun, that was now slowly sinking behind the topmost trees of the steep bank on the other side of the river. And at length, when there was no longer a golden flash on the tea-brown ripples that came dancing over the shingle, he went down to the edge of the stream and began to cast, throwing a very fair line. But he was not very serious about it; in this rapid run there was little chance of anything beyond a sea-trout; he had his eye on a deeper, and smoother, and likelier pool lower down, where perchance there might be a lively young grilse lying, up that morning from the sea.
Then he called out—
"Come along, Fred, and take the next pool: it amuses me quite as much to look on."
"It amuses me more," the younger man said, taking out another cigarette. "You're throwing a beautiful line—go ahead—you'll come upon something down there."
And indeed Frank Meredyth now began to cast with more caution as he approached this smoother and deeper pool—sending his fly well over to the other side, letting it come gradually round with almost imperceptible jerks, and nursing it in the water before recovery. It was one of the best stretches of the river—they had been told that; and there was a fair chance after the rain. But all of a sudden, as he was carefully watching his fly being carried slowly round by the current, there was a terrific splash right in the midst of the stream: a large stone had been hurled from among the trees on the opposite bank: the pool was ruined. The fisherman, without a word, let his fly drift helplessly, and turned and looked at his companion. The same instant Fred Stanley had thrown away his cigarette, ran down the bank, and sprang into the water—careless of everything but getting across in time to capture their cowardly assailant. He had no waders on; but he did not heed that; all his endeavour was to force his way across the current before their unseen enemy could have escaped from among those birches. Meredyth could do nothing but look on. The point at which his companion had entered the stream was rather above the pool, and shallower; but none the less there was a certain body of water to contend with; and out in the middle young Stanley, despite his arduous efforts, made but slow progress. Then there was the catching at the bushes on the opposite bank—a hurried scrambling up—the next second he had disappeared among the birch trees. Frank Meredyth laid down his rod, and quietly took out a cigarette: fishing in this kind of a neighbourhood did not seem to attract him any more.
It was some time before Fred Stanley came back: of course his quest had been unsuccessful—his hampered progress through the water had allowed his foe to get clear away.
"You see you were wrong, Frank," he said, with affected indifference, when he had waded across the stream again. "Our friendly neighbour hasn't gone south to keep the last of his terms, or for any other reason. A pretty trick, wasn't it? I knew there was a dog-in-the-manger look about the fellow; well, I don't care: Mamie can choose her own friends. As for you and me, we are off by the mail-car that leaves to-morrow morning."
He was simply wild with rage, despite all his outward calmness. Frank Meredyth looked very grave indeed.
"We can't do that, Fred," said he. "It would be an affront to your sister——"