Three Boys | Page 3

boy looked up and laughed, his mouth busy the while.
"Father saw sax saumon in the black pool," he cried eagerly.
"Then they'll have to stop," said Kenneth gloomily.
"Eh?"
"There's a chap coming down from London."
"To fesh?"
"Suppose so. We've got to go and meet him."
"With ta pony?"
"No, the boat; coming by the Grenadier."
"Ou ay."
"It's a great bother, Scood."
"But it's a verra fine mornin' for a sail," said the boy, looking up and munching away.
"But I didn't want to sail; I wanted to fish."
"The fush can wait, tat she can."
"Oh, you!" shouted Kenneth. "Wish I had something to throw at you."
"If she did, I'd throw it back," said Scoodrach, grinning.
"I should like to catch you at it. There, go and get the boat."
"Plenty of time."
"Never mind that; let's be off and have a good sail first, as we have to go."
"Will she--will you tak' the gun?"
"Of course I shall. Take the lines too, Scood; we may get a mackerel."
The lad opened his large mouth, tucked in the last piece of marmalade, and then leaped off the stone on to the rock.
"Scood!"
The boy stroked down his grey kilt, and looked up.
"Put on your shoes and stockings."
"What for?"
"Because I tell you. Because there's company coming. Be off!"
"She's got a big hole in her stocking, and ta shoe hurts her heel."
"Be off and put them on," roared Kenneth from the window. "I shall be ready in a quarter of an hour."
Scood nodded, and began to climb rapidly over the buttress of rock which ran down into the sea, the height to which the tide rose being marked by an encrustation of myriads of acorn barnacles, among which every now and then a limpet stood out like a boss, while below, in the clear water, a thick growth of weed turned the rock to a golden brown, and changed the tint of the transparent water.
CHAPTER TWO.
"A BORE!"
"What a bother!" muttered Kenneth, as he left the dining-room, crossed the hall, and entered a little oak-panelled place filled with all kinds of articles used in the chase, and whose walls were dotted with trophies--red deer and roebucks' heads, stuffed game, wild fowl, a golden eagle, and a pair of peregrine falcons. He took a double-barrel from the rack, placed a supply of cartridges in a belt, buckled it on, and then returned to the oak-panelled hall, to pause where his bonnet hang over the hilt of an old claymore.
Carelessly putting this on, he sauntered out of the hall into the shingly path, where he was saluted by a chorus of barking. A great rough-coated, long-legged deerhound came bounding up, followed first by a splendid collie with a frill about his neck like a wintry wolf, and directly after by a stumpy-legged, big-headed, rough grey Scotch terrier, with a quaint, dry-looking countenance, which seemed like that of some crotchety old man.
"Hi, Bruce!" cried Kenneth, as the deerhound thrust a pointed nose into his hand. "What, Dirk, lad!"
This to the collie, which reared up to put its paws upon his chest, and rubbed its head against its master; while the little dog ran round and round clumsily, barking all the while.
"Down, Dirk! Quiet, Sneeshing, quiet!"
The dogs were silent on the moment, but followed close at their master's heels, eyeing the gun wistfully, the deerhound going further, and snuffing at the lock. Being apparently satisfied that it was not a rifle, and that consequently his services would not be required, the hound stopped short by a warm, sheltered place, crouched down, and formed itself into an ornament upon the sea-washed rock.
"There, you can do the same, Dirk. It's boat day," said Kenneth.
The collie uttered a whine and a loud bark.
"Yes, it's boat day, lad. Be off!"
The dog stopped short, and only the little ugly grey terrier followed his master, wagging a short stump of a tail the while, till Kenneth noted his presence.
"No, not to-day," he said sharply.
"Wuph!"
"No. Can't take you. Go back, old chap. Another time!"
Sneeshing uttered a low whine, but he dropped down on the shingle which took the place of gravel, and Kenneth went slowly on along a path formed like a shelf of the huge rock, which, a peninsula at low, an island at high water, towered up from the blue sea an object of picturesque beauty, and a landmark for the sailors who sailed among the fiords and rocks of the western shore.
The scene around was glorious. Where the soft breeze did not turn the water into dazzling, rippling molten silver which sent flashes of light darting through the clear air, there were broad bands of still water of a brilliant blue; others beneath the shelter of the land were of a deep transparent amethyst, while every here and there mountainous islands rose from the sea, lilac, purple, and others of a delicate softened blue, which died away