'What's this?' she said, but she did not heed much—now that the great beautiful gleaming fish lay in the bottom of the boat.
Ronald cared a great deal more. He threw aside the flask. A cut?—it was his own stupidity was the cause of it; he ought to have known that her delicate fingers could not withstand the whirring out of the line; he should have allowed her to keep on her gloves. And nothing would do but that she must carefully bathe the wound in the fresh water of the loch; and he produced a piece of plaster; and then he cut a strip off her handkerchief, and bound up the finger so.
'What do I care?' she said—pointing to the salmon.
And then he begged her to drink a little whisky and water—for luck's sake—though he had been rather scornful about these customs in the morning; and she complied—smiling towards him as the Netherby bride may have looked at Young Lochinvar; but yet he would not drink in her presence; he put the flask aside; and presently they were at their work again, both lines out, and the southerly breeze still keeping up.
They passed the other boat.
'What weight?' was the cry.
'Eleven and a half. Have you got one?'
'Yes.'
'How much?'
'Just over seven.'