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Three Boys; or, the Chiefs of the Clan Mackhai, a fiction by George Manville Fenn |
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Chapter 10. Max's First "Fush" |
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_ CHAPTER TEN. MAX'S FIRST "FUSH" If Max Blande could have done as he liked, he would have said, "No, thank you, I would rather see you fish," but, with a strong feeling upon him that if he refused to make another trial he would either be laughed at or looked upon as a contemptible coward, he took the long rod, with the line sufficiently drawn from the reel to allow the gaudy fly to hang down by his hand. "Ye'll tak' haud o' the flee, or maybe ye'll hae the hook in your han'," cried Tavish. "That's richt. Noo ye'll throw the flee richt oot yonner, and keep drawing a little more line frae the reel at ivery cast. I'll tell ye whaur to throw. Noo then, tak' your stan' richt oot on that big stane whaur the watter comes doon." "But it looks so wet and slippery." "The watter always mak's the stanes wet." "But it's dangerous." Tavish looked at him with astonishment. He could not conceive the possibility of any one seeing danger in going with a spring from rock to rock among which the beautiful river rushed, and his blue eyes opened widely. "I mean," faltered Max, "that it would be so easy to slip in." "Oh, I ken the noo," cried Tavish. "Dinna be skeart, laddie. Ye think she'll catch a cold. Hey, but ye needna be feart o' that. The watter comes doon fresh frae the loch, and she wouldna gie cold to a bairn, let alane a bonnie young laird like you." Max glanced at Kenneth, who was busily tying on a fly and talking to Scoodrach. So, drawing a long breath, he stepped from the bank on to the first stone, after a stride of about a yard, and then stood still, for the water rushing swiftly round him made him feel dizzy. "Noo the next," said Tavish encouragingly; and, comforting himself with the idea that if he was to fall into the rushing water it seemed shallower farther out than close in-shore, where it looked very black and deep, he stepped out to the next stone, and then to the next, wondering the while that nothing had happened to him. Then on and on from stone to stone, feeling giddy, excited, and in a nervous state which impelled him on, though all the while he seemed to have a tragedy taking place before his eyes--of one Max Blande, visitor from London, slipping from a rock out in the midst of that rushing river, and being rolled over and over in the foam, tossed here, banged there against projecting masses of rock, gliding round and round in smooth black whirlpools, and finally being fished out a mile below, dead and cold, and with his clothes clinging to him. He was just about to get on to the imaginary scene of his own funeral being conducted in the most impressive manner, when the voice of the forester made him start. "Gude--gude--gude!" he cried. "Why, ye can leap frae stane to stane as weel as young Scood." The praise acted like a spur, and Max pressed on over the rest of the rocks till he came to the last, quite a buttress nearly in the middle of the stream. "Ye'll no' go farther," cried Tavish. Max did not intend to try, for the next step would have been into the cold boiling water. "Got one yet, Max?" shouted Kenneth, his voice sounding weak and faint in the roar of the hurrying stream. Max shook his head without daring to turn, as he stood there with the foaming, glancing water all round, steadying himself, and forgetting all about the object for which he had come, his one idea being that his object there was to balance himself and to keep from falling. "Noo," shouted Tavish, and his voice electrified Max, who nearly dropped the rod. "That's the way, laddie. Tak a good grip o' the butt and mak' your first cast ahint that black stane. She shall hook a fush there. Leuk, did ye see the fush rise?" Max was trying to make out among scores the black stone "ahint" which he was to throw his "flee," and in a kind of desperation he gave the rod a wave as if it was a great cart-whip, and threw. That is to say, he did something, but where the ornamented hook fell, or whether it fell at all, he had not the slightest idea. "A coot cast!" cried Tavish; "richt for the spot, but not long eneuch. Pull oot some more line, laddie, and do't again." Max obeyed, trying to repeat his former performance in the same blind fashion, and involuntarily he cast the fly in the very pool the forester had pointed out, the eddy catching it and giving it a swirl round before carrying it out of the smooth black water and then away down-stream. "There, she will hae the fush directly. See her rise?" Max made no reply, but let the fly run to the extent of the line, and, without being told, cast again, and looked at Tavish as if to silently ask if that was right. To his surprise, the forester was dancing about frantically upon the shore, while Kenneth and Scoodrach seemed to be roaring with laughter. "Have I done anything very stupid?" said Max to himself. "Ye winna catch a fush like that," cried Tavish; and the next moment Max looked at him in horror, for he came with a rush across the stones, and in the most reckless manner, as if at any moment he must fall headlong into the water. Nothing of the kind. Tavish was a giant in size, but as sure-footed as a goat, and in very few seconds he was alongside Max, bending down to take his keen knife out of his stocking, and looking fiercely at the fisher. "What have I done?" Max's lips parted to say, but they did not utter the words, for Tavish had seized him by the jacket, and for the moment ideas of attacks by savage Highlanders made upon peaceful Southrons flashed into the lad's brain and faded away. "She'll never catch a fush like that," cried Tavish. "But I did try," said Max in remonstrance. "She says she did try," cried Tavish scornfully. "Turn roond, she's got ta flee in her pack." "A flee? Back? Oh, I see!" cried Max, yielding to the pressure of the Highlander's hand, and turning half round. "Mind. Does she want to co into the watter?" But for the strong grasp upon his arm, Max would have stepped off the rock and gone headlong, but he hastily found a place for his erring foot, and stood still while a slight slit was made in the back of his tweed jacket, and the salmon fly which had hooked in there was cut loose. "Why didn't you leave it, Tav?" Kenneth shouted, with his hands to his mouth. "There, now, she'll co pack. Cast again, laddie. She'll soon find ta way." Tavish trotted back, and Max stood for a few moments, with his brow wrinkled up, watching the forester till he was back ashore. "Look, laddie, she's rising," he shouted. "Noo cast yonder ahint that stane." Max had not noticed the rise, but he grasped now the spot where the fish was supposed to be, and made a dash with his rod, sending the line first, the fly after it, and the top of the rod into the stream with a splash. "Acain! cast acain!" cried Tavish; and Max threw and threw his fly, never going two-thirds of the way toward the pool, where a salmon was patiently waiting for such good things as might be washed down and into the great hole behind the stone. As the tyro whisked and waved the rod about, the natural result was that he ran out more and more line, which, thanks to the rushing water, was saved from entanglement. "It's of no use," he said at last despondently, after nearly overbalancing himself, and feeling very dizzy once more. The remark was meant for the forester's ears, but the sound drowned it, and the forester shouted,-- "Noo acain, laddie! Get a good grip o' the butt, and send the flee close under the stane; ta fush is there." Max drew a long breath, and, after the fashion shown him, gave the rod two or three good swishes in the air, the line flying out well behind, and then with all his might he made a tremendous down-stroke, whose effect was to send the fly right across the pool and on to the black stone, where it caught and held on. "Drop your rod!" roared Tavish. "Na, na, the point, laddie, the point!" Tavish was just in time. Another moment, and the rod would have all been in the river. As it was, only the point splashed in, and as the line was slackened the hook fell over sideways and then glided slowly down the side of the rock and dropped lightly into the pool, to go gliding round. Splash! "Up wi' the rod, laddie! up wi' the point o' your rod, laddie!" cried Tavish excitedly. "She's cot ta fush--she's cot ta fush!" Max obeyed, and raised the point of his rod, and then felt a tremendous tug, which sent an electric shock through him. "She's cot him! she's cot him!" cried Tavish, dancing about on the shore and waving the gaff hook he held. "Noo, my laddie, never let the fush rin without feeling your han'." Max heard the forester's shout, but hardly comprehended his words in the excitement of feeling the fish he had hooked dart here and there from side to side of the black-looking pool, and keeping so tight a line that all at once there was a flash of silver, and a goodly salmon leaped right out of the water and fell with a great splash. "Ah, she's gone!" cried Tavish, stamping with rage. "Nay, hold on! Let her rin the noo. An' dinna catch haud too tight o' the line." Max was too confused to obey his instructions, but, fortunately, he did the right thing. For the fish darted away so furiously that the lad loosed his hold upon the line to a great extent, and contented himself by keeping the hard plait close to the rod, so that it was checked a good deal in running through his hand. But all the same the winch began to sing, as, after two or three more darts, the fish dashed off out of the pool and down the stream. The checking it received was greater than would have been dealt out by an experienced fisher, and the result was that, after darting down about forty yards, the salmon reached another pool, where, after it had sailed round two or three times, there was a sudden cessation of movement, and a dead weight hung at the end of the line. "She's got the line around a stane," cried Tavish, running over the stepping-stones, gaff in hand. "She'll lose the fush! she'll lose the fush." "Has it gone?" asked Max rather piteously. "Let her tak' a grip o' the rod, my lad," said the forester; and, catching the long supple wand from the boy's hand, he stood thinking for a few moments winding in a few yards of the line. "Nay, she's on safe," he cried, handing the rod back to Max. "What shall I do now?" said Max nervously. "She shall play ta fush till she's tired, and then she will use the gaff." "But I'm tired now." "But ta fush isna tired, laddie. Wind in, and keep a tight line." To Max's wonder, Tavish went back ashore, and ran down the bank past Kenneth and Scood, to begin picking up big stones and hurling them right into the middle of the pool, so as to disturb the fish, which lay sulking at the bottom, in spite of the steady strain kept on its head. Tavish's efforts were, however, unsuccessful, and in his excitement the forester began to abuse the salmon, calling upon it to move. At last, though, as Max stood upon his tiny rock island with his rod bent, gazing wistfully down at the pool, Tavish sent in a great piece of slaty shale, which fell with a great splash, and then began to zigzag down through the dark water with so good a movement, that it touched the fish on the flank and started it off once more. "Haud up ta rod! haud up ta rod!" cried Tavish. "Hooray, Max! you'll have it now," cried Kenneth; and all watched the fisherman now with the greatest interest, as the salmon darted here and there, sometimes with a good stress on the rod, often, in spite of Tavish's adjurations, with a loose line, for when it rushed toward the holder of the butt, Max could not be quick enough with the winch. Now it was one side of the pool, now close in, and Max's excitement increased till he reached fever heat, and then something happened. The fish had rushed right up toward him, as if about to seek the upper pool, in which it had been hooked, when, apparently feeling itself free, from the pressure being taken off as Max wound up rapidly, the prize turned suddenly, leaped out, giving the water a sounding slap with its tail, and then darted off down the river. "Haud your rod up! Haud your rod up!" cried Tavish frantically; but Max did not respond this time, and the result was that there came a sudden snatch, as it were, at the rod, the winch sung for a moment, and as Max tried to stop it, he had his finger pinched. He had not time to think of that, though, for the next instant there was a sharp snatch and a heavy jerk which drew his arms out, and, before he could recover himself, he lost his balance and went headlong into the pool, while as he rose it was right in the full rush of the stream, which rolled him over, and, after tangling him in his line, before the boy could realise the position, he was being swept away rapidly down toward the sea loch a couple of miles below. _ |
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