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.”