Norman held his tongue, for he had an opinion that he had better not contradict the old gentleman as he was accustomed to do other persons.
Fanny watched Mr Maclean with great curiosity, as, at length having reached a spot where, the breeze playing over the surface, he expected the fish to rise, he began to throw the little fly at the end of his long line. Now he made it skim the water from one side to the other, now he drew it towards him, always keeping it in motion, just as a real fly would play over the surface. On a sudden there was a splash, and for an instant the head of a fish was seen above the surface, and the tip of the light rod bending, the line ran rapidly out of his reel. The laird began at length to wind up the line, in vain the poor fish swam here and there, it could not get the sharp hook out of its mouth. Sandy, laying in his oars, got the landing-net ready. The rod was so light that it could not have borne the weight of the fish, but by putting the net beneath it he easily lifted it into the boat.
“Oh, what a fine fish,” exclaimed Fanny, as she examined the large loch trout which had been caught; “what delicate colours it has! How beautifully it is marked on the back!”
“We must get a few more, though, to make up our dish,” said Mr Maclean, getting his line ready for another throw.
A second unwary trout was soon caught, and a third, and a fourth.
“I should like to fish too,” exclaimed Norman. “Won’t you let me have your long stick and string, Mr Maclean? It seems very easy, and I am sure I should soon catch some.”
The laird laughed heartily.
“You are more likely to tumble into the water, and then we should have to catch you, young gentleman,” he answered. “It will take a good many years before you can throw a fly, let me tell you.”
Norman was not convinced.
“I’ll get Sandy to row me out some day.”