The Eagle Cliff

“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.