"Well, Ivor, are ye not better to-day, man?"

There was a sternness in Mr Gordon's query, which not only surprised but grieved his young companion; and the surprise was increased when the sick man replied in a surly tone—

"Na, laird, I'm not better; an' what's more, I'll not be better till my heed's under the sod."

"I'm afraid you are right, Ivor," returned the laird, in a somewhat softer tone; "for when a man won't help himself, no one else can help him."

"Help myself!" exclaimed the man, starting up on one elbow, and gazing fiercely from under his shaggy brows. "Help myself!" he repeated. And then, as if resolving suddenly to say no more, he sank down and laid his head on the pillow, with a short groan.

"Here, Ivor, is a bottle o' physic that my wife sends to ye," said Mr Gordon, pulling a pint bottle from his pocket, and handing it to the man, who clutched it eagerly, and was raising it to his mouth when his visitor arrested his hand.

"Hoot, man," he said, with a short laugh, "it's not whisky! She bid me say ye were to take only half a glass at a time, every two hours."

"Poor't oot, then, laird—poor't oot," said the man, impatiently. "Ye'll fin' a glass i' the wundy."

Fetching a wine-glass from the window Mr Gordon half filled it with a liquid of a dark brown colour, which the sick man quaffed with almost fierce satisfaction, and then lay down with a sigh.

"It seems to have done ye good already, man," said the laird, putting the bottle and glass on that convenient shelf—the window-sill. "I've no idea what the physic is, but my good wife seems to know, and that's enough for me; and for you, too, I think."

"Ay, she's a good wumin. Thank her for me," responded Ivor.

Remounting the dog-cart the old gentleman explained, as they drove along, that Ivor Donaldson's illness was the result of intemperance.

"He is my gamekeeper," said the laird; "and there is not a better or more trustworthy man in the island, when he is sober; but when he takes one of his drinking fits, he seems to lose all control over himself, and goes from bad to worse, till a fit of delirium tremens almost kills him. He usually goes for a good while after that without touching a drop, and at such times he is a most respectful, painstaking man, willing to take any amount of trouble to serve one, but when he breaks down he is as bad as ever—nay, even worse. My wife and I have done what we could for him, and have tried to get him to take the temperance pledge, but hitherto without avail. My wife has even gone the length of becoming a total abstainer, in order to have more influence over him; but I don't quite see my way to do that myself."

"Then you have not yet done all that you could for the man, though your wife has," thought Barret; but he did not venture to say so.

At this point in the conversation they reached a place where the road left the shores of the loch and ascended into the hills. Being rather steep at its lower end, they alighted and walked; the laird pointing out, as they ascended, features in the landscape which he thought would interest his young guest.

"Yonder," he said, pointing to a wood on the opposite side of the valley, "yonder is a good piece of cover for deer. The last time we had a drive there we got three, one o' them a stag with very fine antlers. It was there that a young friend of mine, who was not much accustomed to sporting, shot a red cow in mistake for a deer! The same friend knocked over five or six of my tame ducks, under the impression that they were wild ones, because he found them among the heather! Are you fond of sport?"

"Not particularly," answered Barret; "that is, I am not personally much of a sportsman, though I have great enjoyment in going out with my sporting friends and watching their proceedings. My own tastes are rather scientific. I am a student of natural history—a botanist and geologist—though I lay no claim to extensive knowledge of science."

"Ah! my young friend, then you will find a powerful sympathiser in my niece Milly—that is, when the poor child gets well—for she is half mad on botany. Although only two weeks have passed since she came to us, she has almost filled her room with specimens of what she calls rare plants. I sometimes tease her by saying it is fortunate that bracken does not come under that head, else she'd pull it all up and leave no cover for the poor rabbits. She has also half-filled several huge books with gummed-in specimens innumerable, though I can't see that she does more than write their names below them."

"And that is no small advance in the science, let me tell you," returned Barret, who was stirred up to defend his co-scientist. "No one can succeed in anything who does not take the first steps, and undergo the drudgery manfully."

"Womanfully, in this case, my friend; but do not imagine that I underrate my little niece. My remark was to the effect that I do not see that she does more, though I have no manner of doubt that her pretty little head thinks a great deal more. Now we will get up here, as the road is more level for a bit. D'you see the group of alders down in the hollow yonder, where the little stream that runs through the valley takes a sudden bend? There's a deep pool there, where a good many sea-trout congregate. You shall try it soon—that is, if you care for fishing."

"Oh, yes, I like fishing," said Barret. "It is a quiet, contemplative kind of sport."

"Contemplative!" exclaimed the old gentleman with a laugh; "well, yes, it is, a little. Sometimes you get down into the bed of the stream with considerable difficulty, and you have to contemplate the banks a long time, occasionally, before deciding as to which precipice is least likely to give you a broken neck. Yes, it is a contemplative sport. As to quiet, that depends very much on what your idea of quietude may be. Our burn descends for two or three miles in succession of leaps and bounds. If the roaring of cataracts is quieting to you, there is no end of it down there. See, the pool that I speak of is partly visible now, with the waterfall above it. You see it?"

"Yes, I see it."

"We call it Mac's pool," continued the laird, driving on, "because it is a favourite pool of an old school companion of mine, named MacRummle, who is staying with us just now. He tumbles into it about once a week."

"Is that considered a necessary part of the process of fishing?" asked Barret.

"No, it may rather be regarded as an eccentric addition peculiar to MacRummle. The fact is, that my good friend is rather too old to fish now; but his spirit is still so juvenile, and his sporting instincts are so keen, that he is continually running into dangerous positions and getting into scrapes. Fortunately he is very punctual in returning to meals; so if he fails to appear at the right time, I send off one of my men to look for him. I have offered him a boy as an attendant, but he prefers to be alone."

"There seems to be some one down at the pool now," remarked Barret, looking back.

"No doubt it is MacRummle himself," said the laird, pulling up. "Ay, and he seems to be making signals to us."

"Shall I run down and see what he wants?" asked Barret.

"Do; you are active, and your legs are strong. It will do you good to scramble a little."

Leaping the ditch that skirted the road, the youth soon crossed the belt of furze and heather that lay between him and the river, about which he and his host had been conversing. Being unaccustomed to the nature of the Western Isles, he was a little surprised to find the country he had to cross extremely rugged and broken, and it taxed all the activity for which the laird had given him credit, as well as his strength of limb, to leap some of the peat-hags and water-courses that came in his way. He was too proud of his youthful vigour to pick his steps round them! Only once did he make a slip in his kangaroo-like bounds, but that slip landed him knee-deep in a bog of brown mud, out of which he dragged his legs with difficulty.

Gaining the bank of the river at last, he soon came up to the fisher, who was of sturdy build, though somewhat frail from age, and dressed in brown tweed garments, with a dirty white wideawake, the crown of which was richly decorated with casting-lines and hooks, ranging from small brown hackle to salmon-fly. But the striking thing about him was that his whole person was soaking wet. Water dripped from the pockets of his shooting coat, dribbled from the battered brim of his wideawake, and, flowing from his straightened locks, trickled off the end of his Roman nose.

"You have been in the water, I fear," said Barret, in a tone of pity.

"And you have been in the mud, young man," said the fisher, in a tone of good-humoured sarcasm.

The youth burst into a laugh at this, and the old fisherman's mouth expanded into a broad grin, which betrayed the fact that age had failed to damage his teeth, though it had played some havoc with his legs.

"These are what I style Highland boots," said the old man, pointing to the muddy legs.

"Indeed!" returned Barret. "Well, you see I have put them on at once, for I have only arrived a few hours since. My name is Barret. I believe I have the pleasure of addressing Mr MacRummle?"

"You have that pleasure, Mr Barret; and now, if you will do me the kindness to carry my rod and basket, I will lead you back to the dog-cart by a path which will not necessitate an additional pair of native boots! I would not have hailed you, but having tumbled into the river, as you see, I thought it would be more prudent to get driven home as quickly as possible."

"You have a good basket of fish, I see, or rather, feel," remarked Barret, as he followed the old man, who walked rather slowly, for his physical strength was not equal to his spirits.

"Ay, it is not so bad; but I lost the best one. Fishers always do, you know! He was a grilse, a six-pounder at the least, if he was an ounce, for I had him within an inch of my gaff when I overbalanced myself, and shot into the stream head foremost with such force, that I verily believe I drove him to the very bottom of the pool. Strange to say the rod was not broken; but when I scrambled ashore, I found that the grilse was gone!"

"How unfortunate! You were not hurt, I hope?"

"Not in the least. There was plenty of depth for a dive; besides, I'm used to it."

It became quite evident to John Barret that his new friend was "used to" a good many more things besides tumbling into the river, for as they went slowly along the winding footpath that led them through the peat-hags, MacRummle tripped over a variety of stumps, roots, and other excrescences which presented themselves in the track, and which on several occasions brought him to the ground. The old gentleman, however, had a fine facility in falling. Being slow in all his movements, he usually subsided rather than fell; a result, perhaps, of laziness as well as of unwillingness to struggle against fate. His frequent staggerings, also, on the verge of dark peat holes, caused his companion many a shock of alarm and many a start forward to prevent a catastrophe, before they gained the high road. They reached it at last, however, rather breathless, but safe.

MacRummle's speech, like his movements, was slow. His personal courage, considering the dangers he constantly and voluntarily encountered, was great.

"You've been in again, Mac, I see," exclaimed the laird heartily, extending his hand to his old friend with the view of hauling him up on the seat beside him. "Mind the step. Now then!"

"Yes, I've been in, but the weather is warm! Stop, stop! Don't pull quite so hard, Allan; mind my rheumatic shoulder. Give a shove behind, Mr Barret—gently—there. Thankee."

The old man sat down with something of a crash beside his friend. Barret handed him his rod, put the basket under his feet, and sprang up on the seat behind.

Returning at a swift pace by the road they had come, they soon reached Kinlossie, where the laird drove into the back yard, so as to deliver the still dripping MacRummle at the back door, and thus prevent his leaving a moist track from the front hall to his bedroom. Having got rid of him, and given the dog-cart in charge to the groom, Mr Gordon led his young friend round to the front of the house.

"I see your friends have already arrived," said the laird, pointing to the waggonette which stood in the yard. "No doubt we shall find them about somewhere."

They turned the corner of the mansion as he spoke, and certainly did come on Barret's friends, in circumstances, however, which seemed quite unaccountable at first sight, for there, in front of the open door, were not only Bob Mabberly, Giles Jackman, Skipper McPherson, James McGregor, Pat Quin, and Robin Tips, but also Mrs Gordon, the two boy Gordons— named respectively, Eddie and Junkie—Duncan, the butler, and little Flora, with a black wooden doll in her arms, all standing in more or less awkward attitudes, motionless and staring straight before them as if petrified with surprise or some kindred feeling.

Barret looked at his host with a slight elevation of his eyebrows.

"Hush!" said the laird, softly, holding up a finger of caution. "My boy Archie is behind that laurel bush. He's photographing them!"

"That'll do," in a loud voice from Archie, disenchanted the party; and while the operator rushed off to his "dark closet," the laird hurried forward to be introduced to the new arrivals, and give them hospitable greeting.

That evening the host and his wife entertained their guests to a genuine Highland feast in the trophied hall, and at a somewhat later hour Duncan, the butler, and Elsie, the cook, assisted by Roderick, the groom, and Mary, the housemaid, held their share of high revelry in the kitchen, with Quin, Tips, and "Shames" McGregor.

"You have come to the right place for sport, gentlemen," said the laird, as he carved with vigour at a splendid haunch of venison. "In their seasons we have deer and grouse on the hills; rabbits, hares, partridges, and pheasants on the low grounds. What'll you have, Mr Mabberly? My dear, what have you got there?"

"Pigeon pie," answered Mrs Gordon.

"Mac, that will suit your taste, I know," cried the host with a laugh.

"Yes, it will," slowly returned MacRummle, whose ruddy face and smooth bald head seemed to glow with satisfaction now that he had got into dry garments. "Yes, I'm almost as fond of pie as my old friend Robinson used to be. He was so fond of it that, strange though it may seem to you, gentlemen, he had a curious predilection for pie-bald horses."

"Come, now, Mac, don't begin upon your friend Robinson till after dinner."

"Has Archie's photography turned out well?" asked Mabberly at this point. "I do a little in that way myself, and am interested as to the result of his efforts to-day."

"We cannot know that before to-morrow, I fear," replied Mrs Gordon.

"Did I hear you ask about Archie's work, Mabberly?" said the laird, interrupting. "Oh! it'll turn out well, I have no doubt. He does everything well. In fact, all the boys are smartish fellows; a little self-willed and noisy, perhaps, like all boys, but—"

A tremendous crash in the room above, which was the nursery, caused the laird to drop his knife and fork and quickly leave the room, with a look of anxiety, for he was a tender-hearted, excitable man; while his quiet and delicate-looking wife sat still, with a look of serenity not unmingled with humour.

"Something overturned, I suppose," she remarked.

In a few minutes her husband returned with a bland smile.

"Yes," he said, resuming his knife and fork; "it was Junkie, as usual, fighting with Flo for the black doll. No mischief would have followed, I daresay, but Archie and Eddie joined in the scrimmage, and between them they managed to upset the table. I found them wallowing in a sea of porridge and milk—that was all!"



CHAPTER FIVE.

PLANS, PROSPECTS, AND A GREAT FIGHT.

There is something very enjoyable in awaking in a strange bedroom with a feeling of physical strength and abounding health about one, with a glorious, early sunbeam irradiating the room—especially if it does not shine upon one's face—with a window opposite, through which you can see a mountain rising through the morning mists, until its summit appears to claim kindred with the skies, and with the consciousness that work is over for a time, and recreation is the order of the day.

Some such thoughts and feelings caused John Barret to smile as he lay flat on his back, the morning after his arrival, with his hands under his head, surveying the low-roofed but cosy apartment which had been allotted to him in the mansion of Kinlossie. But the smile gave place to a grave, earnest expression as his eyes fell upon a framed card, on which was printed, in scarlet and blue and gold, "The earth is the Lords and the fulness thereof."

"So it is," thought the youth; "and my power to enjoy it comes from the Lord—my health, my strength, myself. Yet how seldom do I thank Him for the mere fact of a happy existence. God forgive me!"

Although Barret thus condemned himself, we would not have it supposed that he had been a careless unbeliever. His temperament was grave (not by any means gloomy) by nature, and a Christian mother's love and teaching had, before her early death, deepened his religious impressions.

He was beginning to wonder whether it was Mrs Gordon who had hung the text there, and whether it had been executed by Milly Moss, when the "get up" gong sent forth a sonorous peal, causing him to bound out of bed. The act brought before his eyes another bed—a small one—in a corner of the room reminding him of what he had forgotten, that, the house being full to overflow by the recent accession of visitors, little Joseph, better known as Junkie, shared the room with him.

Junkie was at the moment sleeping soundly, after the manner of the hedgehog—that is, curled up in the form of a ball. It was plain that neither dressing gongs nor breakfast-bells had any effect upon him, for he lay still in motionless slumber.

"Hallo! Junkie, did you hear the gong?" said Barret, pushing the boy gently.

But Junkie answered not, and he had to push him three or four times gently, and twice roughly, before he could awaken the youngster. Uncoiling himself and turning on the other side, Junkie heaved a deep sigh, and murmured,—"Leave m' 'lone."

"Junkie! Junkie! you'll be late for breakfast," shouted Barret in his ear.

"Don'—wan'—any—br'kf'st," murmured the boy. "Leave m' 'lone, I say— or'll wallop you!"

A laugh from Barret, and a still severer shake, roused the boy so far as to make him sit up and stare about him with almost supernatural solemnity. Then he yawned, rubbed his eyes, and smiled faintly.

"Oh! it's you, is it?" he said. "I thought it was Eddie, and—"

Another yawn checked his utterance. Then he suddenly jumped up, and began to haul on his clothes with surprising rapidity. It was evident that Junkie had a will of his own, and was accustomed to exert it on all occasions. He continued to dress, wash himself, brush his hair and his teeth, without speaking, and with such vigour that he soon distanced his companion in the race. True, he did not do everything thoroughly. He did not render his little hands immaculately clean. He did not remember that the secret places behind his ears required to be particularly attended to, and, in brushing operations, he totally forgot that he was possessed of back-hair. Indeed, it is just possible that he disbelieved that fact, for he neglected it entirely, insomuch that when he had completed the operation to his own entire satisfaction, several stiff and independent locks pointed straight to the sky, and two or three to the horizon.

"That's a pretty text on the wall, Junkie," observed Barret, while the youngster was busy with the comb.

"Yes, it's pretty."

Barret wished to draw the boy out, but, like a tough piece of india-rubber, he refused to be drawn out.

"It is beautifully painted. Who did it?" asked the youth, making another attempt.

He had accidentally touched the right chord this time. It vibrated at once. Junkie looked up with sparkling eyes, and said that Milly did it.

"She does everything beautifully," he added, as he brushed away at his forelock—a remarkably obstinate forelock, considering that it was the most highly favoured lock of his head.

"You like Milly, I see," said his friend.

"Of course I do. Everybody does."

"Indeed! Why does everybody like her so much?"

"'Cause she's so nice," said Junkie, dropping his brush on the floor— not accidentally, but as the easiest way of getting rid of it. "And she sometimes says that I'm good."

"I'm glad to hear that, my boy, for if Milly says so it must be true."

"No, it's not true," returned the boy promptly, as he fastened his necktie in a complex knot, and thrust his arm through the wrong hole of his little vest. "Milly is mistaken, that's all. But I like her to say it, all the same. It feels jolly. But I'm bad—awful bad! Everybody says so. Father says so, an' he must be right, you know, for he says he knows everything. Besides, I feel it, an' I know it, an' I don't care!"

Having given vent to this reckless statement, and wriggled into his jacket—the collar of which he left half down and half up—Junkie suddenly plumped down on his knees, laid his head on his bed, and remained perfectly still for the space of about one quarter of a minute. Then, jumping up with the pleased expression of one who felt that he had done his duty, he was about to rush from the room, when Barret stopped him.

"I'm glad to see that you say your prayers, at all events," he said.

"But I wouldn't say them if it wasn't for Milly," returned the urchin. "I do it to please her. An' I wash an' brush myself, an' all that, just 'cause she likes me to do it. I'd neither wash, nor pray, nor brush, nor anything, if it wasn't to please Milly—and mother," he added, after a moment's reflection. "I like them, an' I don't care a button for anybody else."

"What! for nobody else at all?"

"Well, yes, I forgot—I like Ivor, too."

"Is that the sick gamekeeper, Junkie?"

"Sick! no; he's the drunken keeper. Drunken Ivor, we call him—not to his face, you know. Wouldn't we catch it if we did that! But I'm fond of drunken Ivor, an' he's fond of me. He takes me out sometimes when he goes to shoot rabbits and fish. Sometimes he's awful fierce, but he's never fierce to his old mother that lives in the hut close behind his—'cept when he's drunk. D'ee know"—the boy lowered his voice at this point and looked solemn—"he very nearly killed his mother once, when he was drunk, you know, an' when he came sober he cried—oh, just as our Flo cries when she's bin whipped."

At this point the breakfast-bell pealed forth with, so to speak, a species of clamorous enthusiasm by no means unusual in Scottish country mansions, as if it knew that there was spread out a breakfast worth ringing for. At the first sound of it, Junkie burst from the room, left the door wide open, clattered along the passage, singing, yelling vociferously as he went—and trundled downstairs like a retiring thunderstorm.

The arrangements for the day at Kinlossie were usually fixed at the breakfast hour, if they had not been settled the night before. There was, therefore, a good deal to consult about during the progress of the meal.

"You see, gentlemen," said the host, when the demands of nature were partially satisfied, "friends who come to stay with me are expected to select their occupations or amusements for the day as fancy or taste may lead them. My house is 'liberty hall.' Sometimes we go together on the hills after grouse, at other times after red-deer. When the rivers are in order, we take our rods and break up into parties. When weather and wind are suitable, some go boating and sea-fishing. Others go sketching or botanising. If the weather should become wet, you will find a library next to this room, a billiard-table in the west wing, and a smoking-room—which is also a rod and gun-room—in the back premises. We cannot take the men from their work to-day, so that a deer-drive is not possible, but that can be done any day. So, gentlemen, think over it, and make your choice."

"How is Milly this morning?" asked MacRummle, who came down late to breakfast, as he always did, and consequently missed morning prayers.

"Better, much better than we could have expected. Of course the arm is inflamed and very painful, but not broken, which is almost a miracle, considering the height from which she fell. But for you, Mr Barret, she might have lain there for hours before we found her, and the consequences might have been very serious. As it is, the doctor says she will probably be able to leave her room in a few days."

"Come, now, Mac," continued the host, "we have been talking over plans for the day. What do you intend to do?"

"Try the river," said the old gentleman, with quiet decision, as he slowly helped himself to the ham and egg that chanced to be in front of him. "There's a three-pounder, if not a four, which rose in the middle pool yesterday, and I feel sure of him to-day."

"Why, Mr MacRummle," said Mrs Gordon smilingly, "you have seen that three-pounder or four-pounder every day for a month past."

"I have, Mrs Gordon; and I hope to see him every day for a month to come, if I don't catch him to-day!"

"Whatever you do, Mac, don't dive for him," said the laird; "else we will some day have to fish yourself out of the middle pool. Have another cut of salmon, Mr Mabberly. In what direction do your tastes point?"

"I feel inclined to make a lazy day of it and go out with your son Archie," said Mabberly, "to look at the best views for photographing. I had intended to photograph a good deal among the Western Isles, this summer; but my apparatus now lies, with the yacht, at the bottom of the sea."

"Yes, in company with my sixteen-shooter rifle," said Giles Jackman, with a rueful countenance.

"Well, gentlemen, I cannot indeed offer you much comfort as regards your losses, for the sea keeps a powerful hold of its possessions; but you will find my boy's camera a fairly good one, and there are plenty of dry plates. It so happens, also, that I have a new repeating rifle in the house, which has not yet been used; so, in the meantime, at all events, neither of you will suffer much from your misfortunes."

It was finally arranged, before breakfast was over, that MacRummle was to go off alone to his usual and favourite burn; that Jackman and Quin, under the guidance of Junkie, should try the river for salmon and sea-trout; that Barret, with ex-Skipper McPherson, Shames McGregor, Robin Tips, Eddie Gordon, the laird's second son—a boy of twelve—and Ivor, the keeper—whose recoveries were as rapid as his relapses were sudden—should all go off in the boat to try the sea-fishing; and that Bob Mabberly, with Archie, should go photographing up one of the most picturesque of the glens, conducted by the laird himself.

As it stands to reason that we cannot accompany all of these parties, we elect to follow Giles Jackman, Quin, and Junkie up the river.

This expedition involved a preliminary walk of four miles, which they all preferred to being driven to the scene of action in a dog-cart.

Junkie was a little fellow for his age, but remarkably intelligent, active, bright and strong. From remarks made by various members of the Gordon family and their domestics, both Jackman and his servant had been led to the conclusion that the boy was the very impersonation of mischief, and were more or less on the look out for displays of his propensity; but Junkie walked demurely by their side, asking and replying to questions with the sobriety of an elderly man, and without the slightest indication of the latent internal fires, with which he was credited.

The truth is, that Junkie possessed a nature that was tightly strung and vibrated like an Aeolian harp to the lightest breath of influence. He resembled, somewhat, a pot of milk on a very hot fire, rather apt to boil over with a rush; nevertheless, he possessed the power to restrain himself in a simmering condition for a considerable length of time. The fact that he was fairly out for the day with two strangers, to whom he was to show the pools where salmon and sea-trout lay, was a prospect so charming that he was quite content to simmer.

"D'ee know how to fish for salmon?" he asked, looking gravely up in Jackman's face, after they had proceeded a considerable distance.

"Oh, yes, Junkie; I know how to do it. I used to fish for salmon before I went to India."

"Isn't that the place where they shoot lions and tigers and—and g'rillas?"

"Well, not exactly lions and gorillas, my boy; but there are plenty of baboons and monkeys there, and lots of tigers."

"Have you shot them?" asked Junkie, with a look of keen interest.

"Yes; many of them."

"Did you ever turn a tiger outside in?"

Jackman replied, with a laugh, that he had never performed that curious operation on anything but socks—that, indeed, he had never heard of such a thing being done.

"I knew it was a cracker," said Junkie.

"What d'you mean by a cracker, my boy?" inquired Jackman.

"A lie," said Junkie, promptly.

"And who told the cracker?"

"Ivor. He tells me a great, great many stories."

"D'you mean Ivor Donaldson, the keeper?"

"Yes; he tells me plenty of stories, but some of them are crackers. He said that once upon a time a man was walkin' through the jungle—that's what they call the bushes, you know, in India—an' he met a great big tiger, which glared at him with its great eyes, and gave a tremendous roar, and sprang upon him. The man was brave and strong. He held out his right arm straight, so that when the tiger came upon him his arm went into its open mouth and right down its throat, and his hand caught hold of something. It was the inside end of the tiger's tail! The man gave an awful pull, and the tiger came inside out at once with a tremendous crack!"

"Sure, and that was a cracker!" remarked Quin, who had been listening to the boy's prattle with an amused expression, as they trudged along.

"Nevertheless, it may not be fair to call it a lie, Junkie," said Jackman. "Did Ivor say it was true?"

"No. When I asked if it was, he only laughed, and said he had once read of the same thing being done to a walrus, but he didn't believe it."

"Just so, Junkie. He meant you to understand the story of the tiger as he did the story of the walrus—as a sort of fairy tale, you know."

"How could he mean that," demanded Junkie, "when he said it was a tiger's tail—not a fairy's at all?"

Jackman glanced at Quin, and suppressed a laugh. Quin returned the glance, and expressed a smile.

"Better luck next time," murmured the servant.

"Did you ever see walruses?" asked Junkie, whose active mind was prone to jump from one subject to another.

"No, never; but I have seen elephants, which are a great deal bigger than walruses," returned Jackman; "and I have shot them, too. I will tell you some stories about them one of these days—not 'crackers', but true ones."

"That'll be nice! Now, we're close to the sea-pool; but the tide's too far in to fish that just now, so we'll go up to the next one, if you like."

"By all means, my boy. You know the river, and we don't, so we put ourselves entirely under your guidance and orders," replied Jackman.

By this time they had reached the river at the upper end of the loch. It ran in a winding course through a level plain which extended to the base of the encircling hills. The pool next the sea being unfishable, as we have said, owing to the state of the tide, Junkie conducted his companions high up the stream by a footpath. And a proud urchin he was, in his grey kilt and hose, with his glengarry cocked a little on one side of his curly head, as he strode before them with all the self-reliance of a Highland chieftain.

In a few minutes they came to the first practicable pool—a wide, rippling, oily, deep hole, caused by a bend in the stream, the appearance of which—suggestive of silvery scales—was well calculated to arouse sanguine hopes in a salmon fisher.

Here Quin proceeded to put together the pieces of his master's rod, while Jackman, opening a portly fishing-book, selected a casting line and fly.

"Have you been in India, too?" asked Junkie of Quin, as he watched their proceedings with keen interest.

"Sure, an' I have—leastways if it wasn't dhreamin' I've bin there."

"An' have you killed lions, and tigers, and elephants?"

"Well, not exactly, me boy, but it's meself as used to stand by an' howld the spare guns whin the masther was killin' them."

"Wasn't you frightened?"

"Niver a taste. Och! thriflin' craters like them niver cost me a night's rest, which is more than I can say of the rats in Kinlossie, anyhow."

A little shriek of laughter burst from Junkie on hearing this.

"What are ye laughin' at, honey?" asked Quin.

"At you not bein' able to sleep for the rats!" returned the boy. "It's the way with everybody who comes to stay with us, at first, but they get used to it at last."

"Are the rats then so numerous?" asked Jackman.

"Swarmin', all over! Haven't you heard them yet?"

"Well, yes, I heard them scampering soon after I went to bed, but I thought it was kittens at play in the room overhead, and soon went to sleep. But they don't come into the rooms, do they?"

"Oh, no—I only wish they would! Wouldn't we have a jolly hunt if they did? But they scuttle about the walls inside, and between the ceilings and the floors. And you can't frighten them. The only thing that scared them once was the bag-pipes. An old piper came to the house one day and played a great deal, and we heard nothing more of the rats for two or three weeks after that."

"Sensible bastes," remarked Quin, handing the rod to his master; "an' a sign, too, that they've got some notion o' music."

"Why, Quin, I thought you had bag-pipes in Ireland," said Jackman, as he fastened a large fly to his line.

"An' that's what we have, sor; but the Irish pipes are soft, mellow, gentle things—like the Irish girls—not like them big Scotch bellows that screech for all the world like a thousand unwillin' pigs bein' forced to go to markit."

"True, Quin; there's something in that. Now then, both of you stand close to me—a little behind—so; it's the safest place if you don't want to be hooked, and be ready with the gaff, Junkie," said the fisher, as he turned a critical eye on the water, and made a fine cast over what he deemed the most likely part of the pool.

"Father never rose a fish there," said Junkie, with a demure look.

The fisher paid no attention to the remark, but continued to cast a little lower down stream each time.

"You're gettin' near the bit now," said Junkie, in the tone of one whose expectations are awakened.

"Th-there! That's him!"

"Ay, and a good one, too," exclaimed Jackman, as a fan-like tail disappeared with a heavy splash. Again the fisher cast, with the same result.

"He's only playin' wi' the fly," said Junkie in a tone of disappointment.

"That's often the way—no!—th-there! Got 'im!"

The rod bent like a hoop at that moment; the reel spun round to its own merry music, as the line flew out, and the fish finished its first wild rush with a leap of three feet into the air.

"Hooray!" yelled Junkie, now fairly aflame, as he jumped like the fish, flourished the big hook round his head, and gaffed Quin by the lappet of his coat!

"Have a care, you spalpeen," shouted the Irishman, grasping the excited youngster by the collar and disengaging himself from the hook. "Sure it might have been me nose as well as me coat, an' a purty objec' that would have made me!"

Junkie heeded not. When released he ran toward Jackman who was struggling skilfully with the fish.

"Don't let him take you down the rapid," he shouted. "There's no good place for landin' him there. Hold on, an' bring 'im up if you can. Hi!"

This last exclamation was caused by another rush of the fish. Jackman had wound up his line as far as possible, and was in hopes of inducing the salmon to ascend the stream, for he had run perilously near to the head of the rapid against which the boy had just warned him. But to this the fish objected, and, finding that the fisher was obstinate, had, as we have said, made a sudden rush across the pool, causing the reel to spin furiously as the line ran out, and finishing off with another splendid jump.

"A few more bursts like that will soon exhaust him," said Jackman, as he wound in the line again and drew the fish steadily towards him.

"Yes, but don't let him go down," said the boy earnestly.

It seemed almost as if the creature had heard the warning, for it turned at the moment and made a straight rush for the head of the rapid.

When a large salmon does this it is absolutely impossible to stop him. Only two courses are open to the fisher—either to hold on and let him break the tackle; or follow him as fast as possible. The former alternative, we need hardly say, is only adopted when following is impracticable or involves serious danger. In the present case it was neither impossible nor dangerous, but it was difficult; and the way in which Giles Jackman went after that fish, staggering among pebbles, leaping obstructions, crashing through bushes and bounding over boulders, causing Quin to hold his sides with laughter, and little Junkie to stand transfixed and staring with admiration, was indescribable.

For Junkie had only seen his old father in such circumstances, and sometimes the heavy, rather clumsy, though powerful Ivor Donaldson. He had not till that day seen—much less imagined—what were the capacities of an Indian "Woods and Forester" of athletic build, superb training, and fresh from his native jungles!

"I say! what a jumper he is!" exclaimed Junkie, recovering presence of mind and dashing after him.

The rapid was a short though rough one. The chief danger was that the line might be cut among the foam-covered rocks, or that the hook, if not firmly fixed, might tear itself away; also that the fisher might fall, which would probably be fatal to rod or line, to say nothing of elbows and shins.

But Jackman came triumphantly out of it all. The salmon shot into the pool below the rapid, and turned into the eddy to rest. The fisher, at the same moment, bounded on to a strip of sand there—minus only hat and wind—and proceeded to reel in the line for the next burst.

But another burst did not occur, for the fish was by that time pretty well exhausted, and took to what is styled sulking; that is, lying at the bottom of a hole with its nose, probably, under a stone. While in this position a fish may recover strength to renew the battle. It is therefore advisable, if possible, to drive him or haul him out of his refuge by all or any means. A small fish may be hauled out if the tackle be strong, but this method is not possible with a heavy one such as that which Jackman had hooked.

"What's to be done now, Junkie?" he said, after one or two vain efforts to move the fish.

"Bomb stones at him," said the urchin, without a moment's hesitation.

"Bomb away then, my boy!"

Junkie at once sent several large stones whizzing into the pool. The result was that the salmon made another dash for life, but gave in almost immediately, and came to the surface on its side. The battle is usually about ended when this takes place, though not invariably so, for lively fish sometimes recover sufficiently to make a final effort. In this case, however, it was the close of the fight. Slowly and carefully the fisher drew the fish towards the shelving bank, where Junkie stood ready with the gaff. Another moment, and the boy bounded into the water, stuck the hook into the salmon's shoulder, and laid it like a bar of glittering silver on the bank.

"A twenty-pounder," said Junkie, with critical gravity.

"Twinty an' three-quarters," said Quin, as he weighed it.

"And a good job, too," returned the practical urchin; "for I heard mother say we'd have no fish for dinner to-morrow if somebody didn't catch something."



CHAPTER SIX.

DANGEROUS STUDIES, PECULIAR ART, AND SPLENDID FISHING.

There was a glass conservatory in one corner of the garden at Kinlossie House, to which the laird was wont to retire regularly for the enjoyment of a pipe every morning after breakfast. In this retreat, which was rich in hot-house plants, he was frequently joined by one or more of the members of his family, and sometimes by the friends who chanced to be staying with him. Thither John Barret got into the way of going—partly for the sake of a chat with the old man, of whom he soon became very fond, and partly for the sake of the plants, in which he was scientifically interested, botany being, as Mabberly said, his peculiar weakness.

One morning—and a gloriously bright morning it was, such as induces one to thank God for the gift of sunshine and the capacity of enjoying it— John Barret sauntered down to the garden, after breakfast, to have a quiet chat with his host. He had decided to remain at home that morning for the purpose of writing a letter or two, intending in the afternoon to follow up some of his companions, who had gone off to the hills.

Entering the conservatory, he found that the laird was not there; but, in his usual rustic chair, there sat a beautiful girl, sound asleep, with her fair cheek resting on her little hand, and her nut-brown hair straggling luxuriantly over her shoulders.

Barret was spell-bound. He could not move for a few seconds. Surprise may have had something to do with the sudden paralysis of his powers. It may have been curiosity, possibly admiration, certainly some sort of sensation that he could neither describe nor account for. He knew at a glance who the girl was, though he had not seen her since the day of her accident. Even if he had been so obtuse as not to know, the arm in a sling would have revealed that it was Milly Moss who slumbered there; yet he found it hard to believe that the neat little woman, with the lovely, benignant countenance before him was in very truth the dishevelled, dusty, scratched, and blood-sprinkled being whom he had carried for several miles over the heather a short time before.

As we have said, Barret stood immovable, not knowing very well what to do. Then it occurred to him that it was scarcely gallant or fair thus to take advantage of a sleeping beauty. Staring at her was bad enough, but to awake her would be still worse; so he turned slowly about, as a cat turns when afraid of being pounced on by a glaring adversary. He would retire on tiptoe as softly as possible, so as not to disturb her. In carrying out this considerate intention, he swept a flower-pot off its stand, which fell with a mighty crash upon the stone floor.

The poor youth clasped his hands, and glanced back over his shoulder in horror. The startled Milly was gazing at him with mingled surprise and alarm, which changed, however, into a flush and a look of restrained laughter as she began to understand the situation.

"Never mind, Mr Barret," she said, rising, and coming forward with a gracious manner. "It is only one of the commonest plants we have. There are plenty more of them. You came, I suppose, in search of my uncle? Excuse my left hand; the right, as you see, is not yet fit for duty."

"I did indeed come here in search of Mr Gordon," said Barret, recovering himself; "but permit me to lead you back to the chair; your strength has not quite returned yet, I see."

He was right. Although Milly had recovered much more rapidly than the doctor had expected, she could not stand much excitement, and the shock given by the breaking flower-pot, coupled, perhaps, with the unexpected meeting with the man who had rescued her, from what might well have caused her death, somewhat overcame her.

"Excuse me," she said, with a fluttering sigh, as she sank down into the rustic chair, "I do feel rather faint. It does seem so strange! I—I suppose it is because I have had no experience of anything but robust health all my life till now. There—I feel better. Will you kindly fetch me a glass of water? You will find a cistern with a tumbler beside it outside."

The youth hurried out, and, on returning with the glass, found that the deadly pallor of the girl's face had passed away, and was replaced by a tint that might have made the blush rose envious.

"You must understand," said Milly, setting down the glass, while Barret seated himself on a vacant flower-pot-stand beside her, "that this conservatory is a favourite haunt of mine, to which, before my accident, I have resorted every morning since I came here, in order to sit with Uncle Allan. The doctor thought me so much better this morning that he gave me leave to recommence my visits. This is why I came; but I had totally forgotten that uncle had arranged to go out with the shooting party to-day, so I sat down to enjoy my favourite plants, and paid them the poor compliment of falling asleep, owing to weakness, I suppose. But how does it happen, Mr Barret, that you have been left behind? They gave me to understand that you are a keen sportsman."

"They misled you, then, for I am but a poor sportsman, and by no means enthusiastic. Indeed, whether I go out with rod or gun, I usually convert the expedition into a search for plants."

"Oh, then, you are fond of botany!" exclaimed the girl, with a flush of pleasure and awakened interest. "I am so glad of that, because— because—"

"Well, why do you hesitate, Miss Moss?" asked Barret, with a surprised look and a smile.

"Well, I don't quite like to lay bare my selfishness; but the truth is, there are some rare plants in terribly inaccessible places, which can only be reached by creatures in male attire. In fact, I was trying to secure one of these on the Eagle Cliff when I fell, and was so nearly killed at the time you rescued me."

"Pray don't give the little service I rendered so dignified a name as 'rescue.' But it rejoices me to know that I can be of further service to you—all the more that you are now so helpless; for if you found climbing the precipices difficult before, you will find it impossible now with your injured arm. By the way, I was very glad to find that I had been mistaken in thinking that your arm was broken. Has it given you much pain?"

"Yes, a good deal; but I am very, very thankful it was no worse. And now I must show you some of the plants I have been trying to bring up since I came here," said Milly, with animation. "Of course, I cannot walk about to show them to you, so I will point them out, and ask you to fetch the pots—that is, if you have nothing better to do, and won't be bored."

Barret protested earnestly that he had nothing—could have nothing— better to do, and that even if he had he wouldn't do it. As for being bored, the idea of such a state of mind being possible in the circumstances was ridiculous.

Milly was rejoiced. Here she had unexpectedly found a friend to sympathise with her intelligently. Her uncle, she was well aware, sympathised with her heartily, but not intelligently; for his knowledge of botany, he told her frankly, was inferior to that of a tom-cat, and he was capable of little more in that line than to distinguish the difference between a cabbage and a potato.

At it, therefore, the two young people went with real enthusiasm—we might almost say with red-hot enthusiasm—for botany was only a superstructure, so to speak, love being the foundation of the whole affair.

But let not the reader jump to hasty conclusions. Barret and Milly, being young and inexperienced, were absolutely ignorant at that time of the true state of matters. Both were earnest and straightforward—both were ardently fond of botany, and neither, up to that period, had known what it was to fall in love. What more natural, then, than that they should attribute their condition to botany? There is, indeed, a sense in which their idea was correct, for sympathy is one of the most precious seeds with which poor humanity is entrusted, and did not botany enable these two to unite in planting that seed, and is not sympathy the germ of full-blown love? If so, may they not be said to have fallen in love botanically? We make no assertion in regard to this. We merely, and modestly, put the question, leaving it to the intelligent reader to supply the answer—an exceedingly convenient mode of procedure when one is not quite sure of the answer one's self.

To return. Having got "at it," Barret and Milly continued at it for several hours, during which period they either forgot, or did not care to remember, the flight of time. They also contrived, during that time, to examine, discuss, and comment upon, a prodigious number of plants, all of which, being in pots or boxes, were conveyed by the youth to the empty stand at the side of the fair invalid. The minute examination with a magnifying glass of corolla, and stamen, and calyx, etcetera, rendered it necessary, of course, that these inquiries into the mysteries of Nature should bring the two heads pretty close together; one consequence being that the seed-plant of sympathy was "forced" a good deal, and developed somewhat after the fashion of those plants which Hindoo jugglers cause magically to sprout, blossom, and bloom before the very eyes of astonished beholders—with this difference, however, that whereas the development of the jugglers is deceptive as well as quick, that of our botanists was genuine and natural, though rapid.

The clang of the luncheon gong was the first thing that brought them to their senses.

"Surely there must be some mistake! Junkie must be playing with—no, it is indeed one o'clock," exclaimed Milly, consulting in unbelief a watch so small that it seemed like cruelty to expect it to go at all, much less to go correctly.

As she spoke, the door of the conservatory opened, and Mrs Gordon appeared with affected indignation on her usually mild countenance.

"You naughty child!" she exclaimed, hurrying forward. "Did I not warn you to stay no longer than an hour? and here you are, flushed, and no doubt feverish, in consequence of staying the whole forenoon. Take my arm, and come away directly."

"I pray you, Mrs Gordon, to lay the blame on my shoulders," said Barret. "I fear it was my encouraging Miss Moss to talk of her favourite study that induced her to remain."

"I would be only too glad to lay the blame on your shoulders if I could lay Milly's weakness there too," returned the lady. "It is quite evident that you would never do for a nurse. Strong men like you have not sympathy enough to put yourself in the place of invalids, and think how they feel. I would scold you severely, sir, if you were not my guest. As it is, I will forgive you if you promise me not to mention the subject of botany in the presence of my niece for a week to come."

"The condition is hard," said Barret, with a laugh; "but I promise—that is, if Miss Moss does not force the subject on me."

"I promise that, Mr Barret; but I also attach a condition."

"Which is—?"

"That you go to Eagle Cliff some day this week, and find for me a particular plant for which I have sought for a long time in vain, but which I am told is to be found there."

"Most willingly. Nothing could give me greater pleasure," returned the youth, with an air of such eager enthusiasm that he felt constrained to add,—"you see, the acquisition of new and rare plants has been a sort of passion with me for many years, and I am quite delighted to find that there is a possibility of not only gratifying it here, but of being able at the same time to contribute to your happiness."

They reached the house as he made this gallant speech, and Milly went straight to her room.

The only members of the household who sat down to luncheon that day were Mrs Gordon, Archie, the enthusiastic photographer, and Flo, with her black doll; and the only guest, besides Barret, was McPherson, the skipper of the lost yacht. The rest were all out rambling by mountain, loch, or stream.

"Milly won't appear again to-day," said the hostess, as she sat down. "I knew that she had overdone it. The shock to her system has been far too severe to admit of botanical discussions."

Barret professed himself overwhelmed with a sense of guilt, and promised to avoid the dangerous subject in future.

"Mother," exclaimed Flo, who was a good but irrepressible child, "what d'ee t'ink? Archie have pofografft dolly, an' she's as like as—as—two peas. Isn't she, Archie?"

"Quite as like as that, Flo," replied Archie, with a laugh; "liker, if anything."

"By the way, how did you get on with your photographing yesterday afternoon, Archie?" asked Barret.

"Pretty well with some of the views; but I ruined the last one, because father would have me introduce Captain McPherson and his man McGregor."

"Is that so, captain?" asked Mrs Gordon.

"Oo, ay; it iss true enough," answered the skipper, with a grim smile. "He made a queer like mess o' me, what-e-ver."

"How was it, Archie?"

"Well, mother, this is how it was. You know the waterfall at the head of Raven's Nook? Well, I have long wanted to take that, so I went up with father and Mr Mabberly. We found the captain and McGregor sitting there smoking their pipes, and when I was arranging the camera, the captain said to me—"

"No, Maister Archie," interrupted the skipper; "I did not say anything to Shames. You should be more parteekler. But Shames said something to me, what-e-ver."

"Just so; I forgot," continued Archie. "Well, McGregor said to the captain, 'What would you think if we wass to sit still an' co into the pictur'?'"

"Oo, ay; that was just it, an' fery like him too," said the skipper, laughing at Archie's imitation, though he failed to recognise the similarity to his own drawling and nasal tones. People always do thus fail. We can never see ourselves!

"Well," continued Archie, "father insisted that I was to take them, though they quite spoiled the view. So I did; but in the very middle of the operation, what did the captain do but insist on changing his—"

"Not at all, Maister Archie," again interrupted the skipper; "you have not got the right of it. It wass Shames said to me that he thought you had feenished, an' so I got up; an' then you roared like a wild bullock to keep still, and so what could I do but keep still? an so—"

"Exactly; that was it," cried Archie, interrupting in his turn; "but you kept still standing, and so there were three figures in the picture when it was done, and your fist in the standing one came right in front of your own nose in the sitting one, for all the world as if you were going to knock yourself down. Such a mess it was altogether!"

"That iss fery true. It wass a mess, what-e-ver!"

"You must show me this curious photograph, Archie, after lunch," said Barret; "it must be splendid."

"But it is not so splendid as my dolly," chimed in Flo. "I'll show you zat after lunch too."

Accordingly, after the meal was over, Archie carried Barret off to his workshop. Then Flo took him to the nursery, where she not only showed him the portrait of the nigger doll, which was a striking likeness—for dolls invariably sit well—but took special pains to indicate the various points which had "come out" so "bootifully"—such as the nails which Junkie had driven into its wooden head for the purpose of making it behave better; the chip that Junkie had taken off the end of its nose when he tried to convert that feature into a Roman; the deep line drawn round the head close to the hair by Junkie, when, as the chief of the Micmac Indians, he attempted to scalp it; and the hole through the right eye, by which Junkie proposed to let a little more light into its black brain.

Having seen and commented on all these things, Barret retired to the smoking-room, not to smoke, but to consult a bundle of newspapers which the post had brought to the house that day.

For it must not be imagined that the interests and amusements by which he was surrounded had laid the ghost of the thin, little old lady whom he had mur—at least run down—in London. No; wherever he went, and whatever he did, that old lady, like Nemesis, pursued him. When he looked down, she lay sprawling—a murdered, at least a manslaughtered, victim—at his feet. When he looked up, she hung, like the sword of Damocles, by a single fibre of maiden's hair over his head.

It was of no use that his friend Jackman rallied him on the point.

"My dear fellow," he would say, "don't you see that if you had really killed her, the thing would have been published far and wide all over the kingdom, with a minute description, and perhaps a portrait of yourself on the bicycle, in all the illustrated papers? Even if you had only injured her severely, they would have made a sensation of it, with an offer, perhaps, of a hundred pounds for your capture, and a careful indication of the streets through which you passed when you ran away—"

"Ay, that's what makes the matter so much worse," Barret would reply; "the unutterable meanness of running away!"

"But you repented of that immediately," Jackman would return in soothing tones; "and you did your utmost to undo it, though the effort was futile."

Barret was usually comforted a good deal by the remarks of his friend, and indeed frequently forgot his trouble, especially when meditating on botanical subjects with Milly. Still, it remained a fact that he was haunted by the little old lady, more or less, and had occasional bad dreams, besides becoming somewhat anxious every time he opened a newspaper.

While Barret and the skipper were thus taking what the latter called an easy day of it, their friend Mabberly, with Eddie and Junkie and the seaman McGregor, had gone over the pass in the waggonette to the village of Cove for a day's sea-fishing. They were driven by Ivor Donaldson.

"You'll not have been in these parts before, sir?" said Ivor, who was a quiet, polite, and sociable man when not under the influence of drink.

"No, never," answered Mabberly, who sat on the seat beside him; "and if it had not been for our misfortune, or the carelessness of that unknown steamer, I should probably never have known of the existence of your beautiful island. At least, I would have remained in ignorance of its grandeur and beauty."

"That proves the truth of the south-country sayin', sir,—'It's an ill wind that blaws nae guid.'"

"It does, indeed; for although the loss of my father's yacht is a very considerable one, to have missed the hospitality of the laird of Kinlossie, and the rambling over your magnificent hills, would have been a greater misfortune."

The keeper, who cherished a warm feeling for old Mr Gordon, and admired him greatly, expressed decided approval of the young man's sentiments, as was obvious from the pleased smile on his usually grave countenance, though his lips only gave utterance to the expression, "Fery true, sir; you are not far wrong."

At the Eagle Pass they halted a few minutes to breathe the horses. Eddie and Junkie, of course, jumped down, followed by James McGregor, with whom they had already formed a friendship.

"Come away, an' we'll show you the place where Milly fell down. Come along, quicker, Shames," cried Junkie, adopting the name that the skipper used; for the boy's love of pleasantry not infrequently betrayed him into impudence.

With a short laugh, Mabberly turned to Ivor, and asked if Shames was the Gaelic for James.

"No, sir" replied the keeper; "but James is the English for Shames."

"Ha! you are quoting now—or rather, misquoting—from the lips of some Irishman."

"Weel, sir, I never heard it said that quota-ashun wass a sin," retorted Ivor; then, turning to the stupendous cliff that frowned above them, "Hev ye heard of the prophecy, sir, aboot this cliff?"

"No. What is it?"

"It's said that the cliff is to be the scene of a ghost story, a love story, and a murder all at the same time."

"Is that all, Ivor? Did the prophet give no indication how the stories were to end, or who the murderer is to be, or the murdered one?"

"Never a word, sir; only they wass all to be aboot the same time. Indeed, the prophet, whether man or wuman, is not known. Noo, we better shump up."

In a few minutes the waggonette was rattling down the slopes that led to Cove, and soon afterwards they were exchanging greetings with old Ian Anderson, the fisherman.

"Iss it to fush, ye'll be wantin'?" asked Ian, as he ushered the party into his cottage, where Mrs Anderson was baking oat-cakes, and Aggy was busy knitting socks with her thin fingers as deftly and rapidly as if she had been in robust health.

"Yes, that is our object to-day," said Mabberly. "Good-day, Mrs Anderson; good-day, Aggy. I'm glad to see you looking so much better, though I can't see very well for your cottage is none of the lightest," he said, glancing at the small window, where a ragged head, with a flattened white nose, accounted for the obscurity.

"There might be more light," said Ian, seizing a thick thorn stick, and making a sudden demonstration towards the door, the instant effect of which action was an improvement in the light. It did not last long, however, for "Tonal'," after watching at the corner of the cottage long enough to make sure that the demonstration was a mere feint, returned to his post of observation.

"Yes, sir," remarked Mrs Anderson; "Aggy is much better. The fresh air is doin' her cood already, an' the peels that the shentleman—your friend—gave her is workin' wonders."

"They usually do, of one sort or another," returned Mabberly, with a peculiar smile. "I'm glad they happen to be wonders of the right sort in Aggy's case. My friend has been out in India, and his prescriptions have been conceived in a warm climate, you see, which may account for their wonder-working qualities. Can we have your boat to-day, Mr Anderson?"

"Oo, ay; ye can hev that, sir," said Ian, summoning Donald to his presence with a motion of his finger. "Tonal'," he said, when ragged head stood at the open door, "hev we ony pait?"

"Ay, plenty."

"Co doon, then, an' git the poat ready."

The boy disappeared without reply—a willing messenger. A few minutes more, and Ivor and Ian were rowing the boat towards a part of the sea which was deemed good fishing ground, while the rest of the party busied themselves arranging the lines.

Strong brown lines they were, wound on little square wooden frames, each with a heavy leaden sinker and a couple of strong coarse hooks of whitened metal attached to the lines by stout whipcord; for the denizens of those western waters were not the poddlies, coddlings, and shrimps that one is apt to associate with summer resorts by the sea. They were those veritable inhabitants of the deep that figure on the slabs of Billingsgate and similar markets—plaice and skate of the largest dimensions, congers that might suggest the great sea serpent, and even sharks of considerable size.

The surroundings were cognate. Curlews and sandpipers whistled on the shore, complaining sea-mews sailed overhead, and the low-lying skerries outside were swarming with "skarts" and other frequenters of the wild north.

"Oh, what a funny face!" exclaimed Junkie, as a great seal rose head and shoulders out of the sea, not fifty yards off, to look at them. Its observations induced it to sink promptly.

"Let co the anchor, Tonal'," said Ian; "the pottom should be cood here."

"Hand me the pait, Junkie," said McGregor.

"Shie a bit this way," shouted Eddie.

"There—I've broke it!" exclaimed Junkie, almost whimpering, as he held up the handle of his knife in one hand, and in the other a mussel with a broken blade sticking in it.

"Never mind, Junkie. You can have mine, and keep it," said Mabberly, handing to the delighted boy a large buck-horn-handled knife, which bristled with appliances.

"An' don't try it on again," said Ian. "Here iss pait for you, my poy."

A few minutes more, and the lines were down, and expectation was breathlessly rampant.

"Hi!" burst from Eddie, at the same moment that "Ho!" slipped from McGregor; but both ceased to haul in on finding that the "tugs" were not repeated.

"Hallo!" yelled "Tonal'," who fished beside Junkie, on feeling a tug worthy of a whale; and, "Hee! hee!" burst from Junkie, whose mischievous hand had caused the tug when ragged head was not looking.

In the midst of these false alarms Ivor drew up his line, and no one was aware of his success until a fish of full ten pounds' weight was floundering in the boat. The boys were yet commenting on it noisily, when Ian put a large cod beside it.

"What a tug!" cried Eddie, beginning to haul up in violent haste.

"Hev a care, or the line will pairt," said McGregor.

At the same moment "Shames" himself gave a jerk, as if he had received an electric shock, and in a few seconds a large plaice and a small crab were added to the "pile!"

"I've got something at last," said Mabberly, doing his best to repress excitement as he hauled in his line deliberately.

The something turned out to be an eel about four feet long, which went about the boat as if it were in its native element, and cost an amazing amount of exertion, whacking, and shouting, to subdue.

But this was nothing to the fish with which Junkie began to struggle immediately after, and which proved to be a real shark, five feet long. After the united efforts of Ian and Donald had drawn it to the surface, Junkie was allowed to strike the gaff into it, and a loud cheer greeted the monster of the deep as it was hurled into the bottom of the boat.

Thus, in expectation, excitation, and animation, they spent the remainder of that memorable day.



CHAPTER SEVEN.

AMAZING DEEDS AND MISDEEDS AT A DEER-DRIVE.

To some casts of mind there is no aspect of nature so enchanting or romantic as that which is presented, on a fine summer day from the vantage ground of a ridge or shoulder high up on the mountains of one of our western isles.

It may be that the union of the familiar and beautiful with the unfamiliar and wild is that which arouses our enthusiastic admiration. As we stand in the calm genial atmosphere of a summer day, surveying the land and sea-scape from a commanding height that seems to have raised us above the petty cares of life, the eye and mind pass like the lightning-flash from the contemplation of the purple heather and purple plants around—and from the home-feelings thereby engendered—to the grand, apparently illimitable ocean, and the imagination is set free to revel in the unfamiliar and romantic regions "beyond seas."

Some such thoughts were passing in the mind of Giles Jackman, as he stood alone, rifle in hand, on such a height one splendid forenoon, and contemplated the magnificent panorama.

Far down below—so far that the lowing of the red and black specks, which were cattle, and the bleating of the white specks, which were sheep, failed to reach him—a few tiny cottages could be seen, each in the midst of a green patch that indicated cultivation. Farther on, a snow-white line told where the wavelets kissed the rugged shore, but no sound of the kiss reached the hunter's ear. Beyond, as if floating on the calm water, numerous rocky islets formed the playground of innumerable gulls, skarts, seals, loons, and other inhabitants of the wild north; but only to the sense of vision were their varied activities perceptible. Among these islets were a few blacker spots, which it required a steady look to enable one to recognise as the boats of fishermen; but beyond them no ship or sign of man was visible on the great lone sea, over, and reflected in which, hung a few soft and towering masses of cloudland.

"If thus thy meaner works are fair, And beautiful beyond compare; How glorious must the mansions be Where Thy redeemed shall dwell with Thee!"

Jackman murmured rather than spoke the words, for no human ear was there to hear. Nevertheless there were human ears and tongues also, not far distant, engaged in earnest debate. It was on one of the ledges of the Eagle Cliff that our hunter stood. At another part of the same cliff, close to the pass where Milly Moss met with her accident, Allan Gordon stood with nearly all his visitors and several of his retainers around him.

"Higher up the pass you'll have a much better chance, Mr Barret. Is it not so, Ivor?"

The keeper, who, in kilt, hose, and bonnet, was as fine a specimen of a tall athletic Highlander as one could wish to see, replied that that was true.

"Nae doot," he said, "I hev put Mr Jackman in the best place of all, for, whativer way the deer come, they'll hev to pass close, either above or below him—an' that's maybe as weel for him wi' his queer new-fashioned rifle; but at the heed o' the pass is the next best place. The only thing is that ye'll hev to tak' sure aim, for there's more room for them to stray, an' ye may chance to git only a lang shot."

"Well, then, it is not the place for me, for I am a poor shot," said Barret; "besides, I have a fancy to stay here, where I am. You say it is a very good spot, Ivor, I understand?"

"Weel, it's no' that bad as a spote," answered the keeper, with a grim smile, for he had not much opinion of Barret's spirit as a sportsman; "but it's ackward as the lawnd lies."

"Never mind. I'll stay here, and you know, laird, that I have some pleasant associations with it in connection with your niece."

"That is more than Milly has," returned the old gentleman, laughing. "However, have your way. Now, gentlemen, we must place ourselves quickly, for the beaters will soon be entering the wood. I will take you, Mr Mabberly, to a spot beyond the pass where you will be pretty sure of a shot. And MacRummle—where shall we place him?"

"He can do nothing wi' the gun at a', sir," muttered the keeper, in a low voice, so that he might not be overheard. "I wad putt him doon at the white rock. He'll git a lang shot at them there. Of course he'll miss, but that'll do weel enough for him—for he's easy pleased; ony way, if he tak's shootin' as he tak's fishin', a mere sight o' the deer, like the rise o' a salmon, 'll send him home happy."

"Very well, Ivor, arrange as you think best. And how about Captain McPherson and McGregor?"

"I'll tak' care o' them mysel', sir."

"Ye need na' fash yer heed aboot us, laird," said the skipper. "Bein' more used to the sea than the mountains, we will be content to look on. Iss that not so, Shames?"

"That iss so—what-e-ver," returned the seaman.

"Well, come along then; the beaters must be at work now. How many did you get, Ivor?"

"I'm not exactly sure, sir," returned the keeper; "there's Ian Anderson an' Tonal' from Cove, an' Mister Archie an' Eddie, an' Roderick—that's five. Oo, ay, I forgot, there's that queer English loon, Robin Tips— he's no' o' much use, but he can mak' a noise—besides three o' Mr Grant's men."

"That's plenty—now then—"

"Please, father," said Junkie, who had listened with open eyes and mouth, as well as ears, for this was his first deer-stalk, "may I stop with Mr Barret?"

"Certainly, my boy, if Mr Barret does not object."

Of course Mr Barret did not object, though he was rather surprised at this mark of preference.

"I say, me boy," whispered Pat Quin, "ask av I may stop wid ye."

Junkie looked at the Irishman doubtfully for a moment, then said—

"Father, Quin says he wants to stop with me."

"You mayn't do that, Quin," returned the laird with a smile; "but you may go and stay with your master. I heard him say that he would like you to be with him to keep you out of mischief."

"Thankee, sor. I was used to attend on 'im in the jungles to carry his spare guns, for it's ellyphints, no less, that we was used to bag out there; but I make no question he can amuse himsilf wid deer an' things like that where there's nothin' better. He was always aisy to plaze, like Mr MacRummle."

"Just so, Quin; and as MacRummle knows the hill, and has to pass the place where Mr Jackman has been left, you had better follow him."

This arranged, the different parties took up their positions to await the result of the beating of a strip of dwarf forest, several miles in extent, which clothed part of the mountain slopes below the Eagle Cliff.

On reaching the spot where Jackman was stationed, old MacRummle explained to him the various arrangements that had just been made for the comfort of all.

"I am sorry they gave me the best place," said Jackman. "I suppose it is because the laird thinks my experience in India entitles me to it; but I would much rather that Mabberly or Barret had got the chance, for I'm used to this sort of thing, and, after bagging elephants, I can afford to lay on my oars and see my friends go in and win."

"An' sure, aren't thim the very words I said, sor?" put in Quin.

"Have they given you a good place?" asked Jackman of MacRummle, taking no notice of his man's remarks.

"They've given me the worst," said the old man, simply; "and I cannot blame them, for, as the keeper truly remarked, I can do nothing with the gun,"—still less with the rifle, he might have added! "At the same time, I confess it would have added somewhat to the zest of the day if Ivor had allowed me some degree of hope. He thought I didn't overhear him, but I did; for they give me credit for greater deafness than I deserve."

There was something so pitiful, yet half amusing, in the way in which this was said, that Jackman suddenly grasped the old gentleman's hand.

"Mr MacRummle," he said firmly, "will you do me a favour?"

"Certainly, with pleasure—if I can."

"You can—and you shall. It is this: change places and rifles with me."

"My dear, kind sir, you don't know what you ask. My rifle is an old double-barrel muzzle loader, and at the white rock you wouldn't have the ghost of a chance. I know the place well, having often passed it in fishing excursions up the burns. Besides, I never used a repeating rifle in my life. I couldn't manage it, even if I were to try."

"Mr MacRummle, are you not a Highlander?"

"I believe I am!" replied the old man, drawing himself up with a smile.

"And is not that equivalent to saying that you are a man of your word?"

"Well—I suppose it is so—at least it should be so."

"But you will prove that it is not so, if you fail to do me a favour that lies in your power, after promising to do it. Come now, we have no time to lose. I will show you how to use the repeater. See; it is empty just now. All you have to do is to take aim as you would with any ordinary rifle, and pull the trigger. When the shot is off, you load again by simply doing this to the trigger-guard—so. D'you understand?"

"Yes, perfectly; but is that all? no putting in of cartridges anywhere?"

"No, nothing more. Simply do that (open—and the cartridge flies out), and that (shut—and you are loaded and ready to fire)! Now, try it. That's it! Capital! Couldn't be better. Why, you were born to be a sportsman!"

"Yes, with fish," remarked the gratified old man, as he went through the motions of loading and firing to perfection.

"Now, then, I will load it thus. Watch me."

As he spoke, he filled the chamber under the barrel with cartridge after cartridge to the amazement of MacRummle and the amusement of Quin, who looked on.

"How many shots will it fire without reloading?" asked the old man at length.

"Sixteen," replied Jackman.

"What! sixteen? But—but how will I ever know how many I've let off?"

"You don't require to know. Just blaze away till it refuses to fire! Now, I must be off. Where is this white rock that I have to go to?"

"There it is—look. A good bit down the hill, on the open ground near the forest. If you have good eyes, you can see it from here. Look, just behind the ridge. D'you see?"

"I see. Great luck to you. Do good work, and teach that rascal Ivor to respect your powers with the rifle. Come along, Quin."

"But really, my young friend, it is too good, too self-denying of you to—"

He stopped, for Jackman and Quin were already striding down the mountain on their way to the white rock.

MacRummle had been somewhat excited by the enthusiasm of his young friend and the novelty of his situation. To say truth, he would much rather have been pottering along the banks of one of his loved Highland streams, rod in hand, than crouching in the best pass of the Eagle Cliff in expectation of red-deer; but being an amiable and sympathetic man, he had been fired by the enthusiasm of the household that morning, and, seeing that all were going to the drive, including the laird, he made up his mind to brace himself up to the effort, and float with the current. His enthusiasm had not cooled when he reached the Eagle Cliff, and Jackman's kindness, coupled with hope and the repeating rifle, increased it even to white heat. In which condition he sat down on a rock, removed his hat, and wiped his bald, perspiring head, while a benignant smile illuminated his glowing features.

About the same time, Barret and Junkie having selected a convenient mass of rock as their outlook, so that they could command the pass for some distance in both directions without exposing themselves to view, rested the rifle against the cliff and began to talk. Soon the young man discovered that the little boy, like many other mischievous boys, was of an exceedingly inquiring disposition. Among other things, he not only began an intelligent inquiry about the locks of a rifle, but a practical inquiry with his fingers, which called for remonstrance.

"Do you know, Junkie, that this is the very spot where your Cousin Milly fell?" said Barret, by way of directing the urchin's thoughts into a safer channel.

"Is it? Oh, dear, what a thump she must have come down!"

"Yes, indeed, a dreadful thump—poor thing. She was trying to get flowers at the time. Do you know that she is exceedingly fond of flowers?"

"Oh, don't I? She's got books full of them—all pasted in with names printed under them. I often wonder what she sees in flowers to be so fond of them. I don't care a button for them myself, unless they smell nice. But I often scramble after them for her."

"There is a good deal to like in flowers besides the smell," said Barret, assuming an instructive tone, which Junkie resented on the spot.

"Oh, yes, I don't want to know; you needn't try to teach me," he said, firmly.

"Of course not. I wouldn't think of teaching you, my boy. You know I'm not a schoolmaster. I'm not clever enough for that, and when I was your age, I hated to be taught. But I could show you some things about flowers and plants that would astonish you. Only it would not be safe to do it just now, for the deer might come up and—"

"No they won't," interrupted the boy; "it's a monstrous big wood they've got to pass through before they can come here, so we have time to look at some of the 'stonishin' things."

"Well, then, come. We will just go a little way up the cliff."

Leading Junkie away among the masses of fallen rock, which strewed that ledge of the cliff, the wily youth began to examine plants and flowers minutely, and to gradually arouse in the boy's mind an interest in such parts of botanical science as he was capable of understanding.

Meanwhile the small army of beaters had extended themselves across the distant end of the forest, which, being some miles off, and on the other side of a great shoulder of the mountain, was not only out of sight, but out of hearing of the stalkers who watched the passes of the Eagle Cliff.

All the beaters, or drivers, were well acquainted with the work they had to do, with the exception of Robin Tips, to whom, of course, it was quite new. But Ian Anderson put him under Donald's care, with strict injunctions to look well after him.

"Now, Tonal', see that ye don't draw together an' git ta-alkin' so as to forget what ye're about. Keep him at the right distance away from ye, an' as much in line as ye can."

"Oo, ay," returned ragged head, in a tone that meant, when translated into familiar English, "Don't teach your grandmother to suck eggs!"

In a sequestered dell on the slope of the hills, a lordly stag and several hinds were enjoying themselves that morning among the bracken and bright mosses, partially screened from the sun by the over-arching boughs of birch and hazel, and solaced by the tinkling music of a neighbouring rill. Thick underwood concealed the dell on all sides; grey lichen-covered boulders surrounded it; no sound disturbed it save the faint cry of the plover and curlew on the distant shore, or the flap of a hawk's wing as it soared overhead. Altogether it looked like a safe and sure retreat, but it did not prove to be so.

Mingled with the plaintive cries of the wild fowl, there came a faint— barely perceptible—sound of the human voice. The stag pricked up his ears, and raised his antlered head. It was by no means a new sound to him. The shepherd's voice calling to his collie on the mountain-side was a familiar sound, that experience had taught him boded no evil. The converse of friends as they plodded along the roads or foot-paths that often skirted his lairs, had a tone of innocence about it which only induced caution—not alarm. But there was nothing of this in the sounds that now met his ears. He raised himself higher, opened his nostrils wider, sniffed the tainted air, and then, turning his graceful head, made some remark—we presume, though we cannot be positive on this point—to his wives.

These, meek and gentle—as females usually are, or ought to be—turned their soft inquiring gaze on their lord. Thus they stood, as if spell-bound, while the sounds slowly but steadily increased in volume and approached their retreat. Presently a shoulder of the mountain was turned by the drivers, and their discordant voices came down on the gentle breeze with unmistakable significance.

We regret being unable to report exactly what the stag then said to his wives, but the result was that the entire family bounded from their retreat, and, in the hurry and alarm of the moment, scattered along various glades, all of which, however, trended ultimately towards those mountain fastnesses that exist about and beyond the Eagle Cliff.

Two of the hinds followed their lord in a direction which led them out of the wood within sight of, though a considerable distance from, the white rock behind which Jackman and Quin were concealed. The others fled by tracks somewhat higher on the hill-sides, where however, as the reader knows, the enemy was posted to intercept them.

"Sure it's a purty stag, afther all," whispered Quin, who, in spite of elephantine-Indian sport, was somewhat excited by this sudden appearance of the Scottish red-deer. "But they're a long way off, sor."

"Not too far, if the rifle is true," said Jackman, in a very low voice, as he put up the long-range sight.

"You'll git a good chance at the stag whin he tops the hillock forenent you, sor," remarked the somewhat garrulous Irishman.

"I won't fire at the stag, Quin," returned Jackman, quietly. "You and I have surely killed enough of bigger game abroad. We can afford to let the stag pass on to our friends higher up, some of whom have never seen a red-deer before, and may never have a chance of seeing one again."

All this was said by the sportsman in a low, soft voice, which could not have been heard three yards off, yet his sharp eye was fixed intently on the passing deer. Seeing that there was no likelihood of their coming nearer, he raised his rifle, took steady but quick aim, and fired. One of the hinds dropped at once; the other followed her terrified lord as he dashed wildly up the slope.

Partial deafness is a slight disadvantage in deer-stalking. So, at least, MacRummle discovered that day. After having wiped his forehead, as already described, he set himself steadily to fulfil the duties of his situation. These were not so simple as one might suppose, for, as had been explained to him by Jackman, he had to watch two passes—one close above his post, the other close below it—either of which might bring the deer within easy reach of his rifle, but of course there was the uncertainty as to which of the two passes the deer would choose. As it was a physical impossibility to have his eyes on both passes at once, the old gentleman soon found that turning his head every few seconds from one side to the other became irksome. Then it became painful. At last it became torture, and then he gave up this plan in despair, resolving to devote a minute at a time to each pass, although feeling that by so doing his chances were greatly diminished.

When Jackman fired his shot, MacRummle's ears refused to convey the information to his brain. He still sat there, turning his head slowly to and fro, and feeling rather sleepy. One of the scattered deer, which had gone higher up the mountain, passed him by the upper track. MacRummle was gazing at the lower track just then! Having given the allotted time to it, he turned languidly and beheld the hind, trotting rather slowly, for it was somewhat winded.