"Haul him in! Shove out the butt! No scientific playing with a lithe! Well done!—well done!—a five-pounder I'll bet ten farthings!"
It was not scientific fishing; but we got big fish—which is of more importance in the eyes of Master Fred. And then, as the night fell, we set out again for the yacht; and the Doctor pulled stroke; and he sang some more verses of the biorlinn song as the blades dashed fire into the rushing sea:—
Proudly o'er the waves we'll bound her,
As the staghound bounds the heather!
Ho, ro, clansmen!
A long, strong pull together,
Ho, ro, clansmen!
Through the eddying tide we'll guide her,
Round each isle and breezy headland,
Ho, ro, clansmen!