for the cantrips which this small salmon played were most extraordinary.  For a second or two he seemed inclined to go right down the stony channel (which would have instantly settled the matter, as there was no possible means of following him), but the next moment he had dashed right up through the middle of the pool, tearing the water as he went, and frightening the luckless fisherman half out of his wits with this dangerously slackening line.  That, however, was soon righted; and now the salmon lay in an eddy just below the fall.  Would he attempt to breast that bulk of water in a mad effort to be free of this hateful thing that had got hold of him?—­then good-bye to him forever!  But no—­that was not his fancy; he suddenly sprang into the air—­and again sprang—­and then savagely beat the surface with body and tail; after which fearsome performance he swerved round and came right in under the rock on which Lionel was standing, where they could see him lying perfectly still in the deep, clear water.  He neither tugged nor bored; that olive-green thing (for so he appeared in these depths) lay perfectly motionless—­no doubt planning further devilment and only waiting to recover his strength.  Meanwhile Lionel had scrambled a bit higher up the rock, so as to get the rod at a safer angle.

“He’s a lively fellow, that one!” old Robert said, with a grin.  “Ay, sir, and ye hooked him ferry well, too.”

“I should say I did!” Lionel exclaimed.  “I had no idea there was a fish there—­I never saw him coming—­I was drawing the line out of the water, and all at once thought I had struck on a log.  He’s well hooked, I should think; but I didn’t hook him—­he hooked himself.”

“He’s not a ferry big one, but he’s a salmon whatever,” old Robert said; and then he suddenly called out, “Mind, sir!—­let him go!—­let him go!”

For away went that little wretch again, tearing over to the other side, where he lashed and better lashed the surface; and then, getting tired of that exercise, he somewhat sullenly came sailing into mid-stream, where there was a smooth, dark current, bounded on the side next the fisherman by some brown shelves of rock only a few inches under water.  And what must this demon of a fish do but begin boring into the stream, so that every moment the line was being drawn nearer and nearer to the knife-like edge.

“Here, Robert, what am I to do now?” Lionel cried, in dismay.  “Another couple of inches, and it’s all over!  How are we to get him out of that hole?”

“Mebbe he’ll no go mich deeper,” Robert observed, calmly, but with his gray eyes keenly watching.

“If I lose this fish,” Lionel said, between his teeth, “I’ll throw myself into the pool after him!”

“You’d better not,” said Miss Cunyngham, placidly, “for if Robert has to gaff you, you’ll find it a very painful experience.”