, 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 th