"How shall I get ash.o.r.e?" said Max, with a shiver.

"Stan' up, laddie, and get on my pack. Nivver mind a drap o' watter.

Maister Ken there's got the whusky, and we'll christen ta fush and troon a' ta colds in ta old kintra."

Max hesitated for a moment, and then, with some a.s.sistance, stood up, and let himself be drawn on to the Highlander's back.

"I shall make you so wet," he said apologetically.

"Ant ta whusky'll mak' us poth try," cried Tavish, laughing. "Why, ye're tied up in a knot, laddie, and ye've proke ta pest rod; and pring it along, Scoody lad, and ton't get ta line roond ta stanes."

"I'm very sorry I broke the rod," said Max apologetically again.

"Nivver mind ta rod; it's her nainsel' as can ment any rod. We've caught a wunnerfu' saumon, laddie. She's a gran' fush. There, noo, we'll get ye oot o' the tangle. What is she, Maister Kenneth-- twa-an'-twenty pun'?"

"Five-and-twenty," cried Kenneth, as Max was deposited on the gra.s.s.

"Na, na; twa-an'-twenty pun'. I ken the size," cried Tavish. "Noo, laddie, stan' still; and you, Scoody, tak' a haud of the reel, and walk roond and roond till ye get all the line, and wind her up as ye go."

Scood took the reel, and went round, releasing Max from the bonds the river had thrown about him in rolling him over and over, after which he forgot his dripping state, and walked to where the salmon lay.

"Ye'll tak' joost a sma' taste, sir, to keep oot ta cold," said the forester, offering the cup from the bottom of the flask to Max, who shook his head.

"Mebbe ye're richt," said Tavish, tossing off the spirit; "it's a fine hailsome trink for a grown man, but--Na, na, Scood, if ye're thirsty, laddie, there's plenty coot watter in the river."

"Yes, don't give Scoody any," said Kenneth.

"Nay, Maister Kenneth, I winna gie him a taste. Ye'll be takkin' a wee drap yersel', I'm thenking?"

"Not I, Tavvy. Now then, it's a twenty-five pounder, isn't it?"

Tavish wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, gazing thoughtfully down at the salmon, after which he laid the b.u.t.t of one of the fishing-rods beside it, and compared the captive with a nick on the side before drawing a piece of knotted string from his sporran, which had to be taken off and drained, for it was half full of water.

"Nay," he said, as he knelt on one knee, after measuring the girth of the fish with great deliberation, "I said twa-an'-twenty pun', Maister Ken, but I'll gie ye anither pun'. She's three-an'-twenty pun' barely."

"Five-and-twenty, Tavvy!"

"Nay, sir, three-an'-twenty, and not an ounce ower, and the laddie's caught the best fush this year. Noo then, I'm thenking I can show him where there's anither. Ye'll lend her your rod?"

"Oh yes. Here you are, Max!"

"I think I would rather go home and change my wet things," said Max.

"Nivver mind a drap o' watter, laddie. Watter like this winna gie you cauld. Have a gude rin, and then--"

"Not to-day, Tav," said Kenneth. "We're all wet through, so let's go back. Who's going to carry the twenty-five pound salmon?"

"Ta fush weighs three-an'-twenty pun' and nae mair, Maister Kenneth."

"Ah, well, we'll see as soon as we get back," said Kenneth; and back they tramped to Long Shon's bothy, that worthy sitting at the door smoking a pipe, and smiling broadly as he saw his son approaching with the goodly fish, the circulation brought by the walk having chased away the sensation of cold.

"Here, Shon, weigh this fish," cried Kenneth imperiously.

"Ask Tavish," was the reply. "He'll tell you to a pound, sir."

"I tell you I want you to weigh it," cried Kenneth and Shon rose to his feet, to stand not much higher than he sat, and, taking the fish, he bore it into the place where he cut up and packed the haunches of venison. There the capture was hung upon one of the hooks of the steelyard.

"Now, Tavish, look," cried Kenneth triumphantly. "Five-and-twenty pounds if it's an ounce."

"Three-an'-twenty, and hardly that," said Tavish firmly. "Noo, Shon, what does she scale?"

"Twa-an'-twenty pun' an' three-quairters," said Long Shon.

"Oh!" exclaimed Kenneth, in a disappointed tone.

"An' ta finest fush o' the season, laddie," cried Tavish triumphantly.

"And noo, if ye winna hae a drappie, go and tak' aff the wat claes, for too much watter is bad for a man, even if the watter's coot."

CHAPTER TWELVE.

A LESSON FROM MAX.

"Caught a twenty-two-pound salmon, eh?" said The Mackhai, looking up from a letter he was reading.

"He thinks he caught it, father," said Kenneth, laughing; and, as they stood waiting in the dining-room, the boy related the adventure of the day, and how they had, after changing, gone for a long tramp across the mountain slope, and chased the hares. "Well, be civil to him, Ken.

Remember we are gentlemen. And even if he is the son of a miserable shark of a lawyer, let his father learn that the Mackhais can do good for evil."

Kenneth stared wonderingly in his father's face. "What does it all mean?" he thought, and he noted the lines of trouble and annoyance deepening as The Mackhai let his eye fall upon his letter once more.

"My father must hate his father," thought Kenneth; "and he is too much of a gentleman to show his dislike to his son. Why does he have him here, then? A stupid, girlish m.u.f.f of a fellow! One's obliged to laugh at him, poor beggar!"

The Mackhai doubled up his letter angrily, and thrust it into his pocket.

"Did that boy hear the gong?" he said peevishly.

"I don't know, father. Shall I run up to his room?"

"No, certainly not. Treat him as you would any other visitor, but you are not his gillie. Ring, and send Grant."

The bell was touched: the butler entered directly.

"The young gentleman is not down yet, sir."

"Well, I know that," said his master sharply. "Go and tell him we are waiting dinner."

The butler, as he turned, looked as if he would like to give notice to leave on the spot, but he said nothing, and left the room.