The Eagle Cliff

Strong brown lines they were, wound on little square wooden frames, each with a heavy leaden sinker and a couple of strong coarse hooks of whitened metal attached to the lines by stout whipcord; for the denizens of those western waters were not the poddlies, coddlings, and shrimps that one is apt to associate with summer resorts by the sea. They were those veritable inhabitants of the deep that figure on the slabs of Billingsgate and similar markets—plaice and skate of the largest dimensions, congers that might suggest the great sea serpent, and even sharks of considerable size.

The surroundings were cognate. Curlews and sandpipers whistled on the shore, complaining sea-mews sailed overhead, and the low-lying skerries outside were swarming with “skarts” and other frequenters of the wild north.

“Oh, what a funny face!” exclaimed Junkie, as a great seal rose head and shoulders out of the sea, not fifty yards off, to look at them. Its observations induced it to sink promptly.

“Let co the anchor, Tonal’,” said Ian; “the pottom should be cood here.”

“Hand me the pait, Junkie,” said McGregor.

“Shie a bit this way,” shouted Eddie.

“There—I’ve broke it!” exclaimed Junkie, almost whimpering, as he held up the handle of his knife in one hand, and in the other a mussel with a broken blade sticking in it.

“Never mind, Junkie. You can have mine, and keep it,” said Mabberly, handing to the delighted boy a large buck-horn-handled knife, which bristled with appliances.

“An’ don’t try it on again,” said Ian. “Here iss pait for you, my poy.”

A few minutes more, and the lines were down, and expectation was breathlessly rampant.

“Hi!” burst from Eddie, at the same moment that “Ho!” slipped from McGregor; but both ceased to haul in on finding that the “tugs” were not repeated.

“Hallo!” yelled “Tonal’,” who fished beside Junkie, on feeling a tug worthy of a whale; and, “Hee! hee!” burst from Junkie, whose mischievous hand had caused the tug when ragged head was not looking.

In the midst of these false alarms Ivor drew up his line, and no one was aware of his success until a fish of full ten pounds’ weight was floundering in the boat. The boys were yet commenting on it noisily, when Ian put a large cod beside it.

“What a tug!” cried Eddie, beginning to haul up in violent haste.

“Hev a care, or the line will pairt,” said McGregor.

At the same moment “Shames” himself gave a jerk, as if he had received an electric shock, and in a few seconds a large plaice and a small crab were added to the “pile!”

“I’ve got something at last,” said Mabberly, doing his best to repress excitement as he hauled in his line deliberately.

The something turned out to be an eel about four feet long, which went about the boat as if it were in its native element, and cost an amazing amount of exertion, whacking, and shouting, to subdue.

But this was nothing to the fish with which Junkie began to struggle immediately after, and which proved to be a real shark, five feet long. After the united efforts of Ian and Donald had drawn it to the surface, Junkie was allowed to strike the gaff into it, and a loud cheer greeted the monster of the deep as it was hurled into the bottom of the boat.

Thus, in expectation, excitation, and animation, they spent the remainder of that memorable day.

Chapter Seven

Amazing Deeds and Misdeeds at a Deer-Drive

To some casts of mind there is no aspect of nature so enchanting or romantic as that which is presented, on a fine summer day from the vantage ground of a ridge or shoulder high up on the mountains of one of our western isles.

It may be that the union of the familiar and beautiful with the unfamiliar and wild is that which arouses our enthusiastic admiration. As we stand in the calm genial atmosphere of a summer day, surveying the land and sea-scape from a commanding height that seems to have raised us above the petty cares of life, the eye and mind pass like the lightning-flash from the contemplation of the purple heather and purple plants around—and from the home-feelings thereby engendered—to the grand, apparently illimitable ocean, and the imagination is set free to revel in the unfamiliar and romantic regions “beyond seas.”

Some such thoughts were passing in the mind of Giles Jackman, as he stood alone, rifle in hand, on such a height one splendid forenoon, and contemplated the magnificent panorama.

Far down below—so far that the lowing of the red and black specks, which were cattle, and the bleating of the white specks, which were sheep, failed to reach him—a few tiny cottages could be seen, each in the midst of a green patch that indicated cultivation. Farther on, a snow-white line told where the wavelets kissed the rugged shore, but no sound of the kiss reached the hunter’s ear. Beyond, as if floating on the calm water, numerous rocky islets formed the playground of innumerable gulls, skarts, seals, loons, and other inhabitants of the wild north; but only to the sense of vision were their varied activities perceptible. Among these islets were a few blacker spots, which it required a steady look to enable one to recognise as the boats of fishermen; but beyond them no ship or sign of man was visible on the great lone sea, over, and reflected in which, hung a few soft and towering masses of cloudland.

“If thus thy meaner works are fair,
And beautiful beyond compare;
How glorious must the mansions be
Where Thy redeemed shall dwell with Thee!”

Jackman murmured rather than spoke the words, for no human ear was there to hear. Nevertheless there were human ears and tongues also, not far distant, engaged in earnest debate. It was on one of the ledges of the Eagle Cliff that our hunter stood. At another part of the same cliff, close to the pass where Milly Moss met with her accident, Allan Gordon stood with nearly all his visitors and several of his retainers around him.

“Higher up the pass you’ll have a much better chance, Mr Barret. Is it not so, Ivor?”

The keeper, who, in kilt, hose, and bonnet, was as fine a specimen of a tall athletic Highlander as one could wish to see, replied that that was true.

“Nae doot,” he said, “I hev put Mr Jackman in the best place of all, for, whativer way the deer come, they’ll hev to pass close, either above or below him—an’ that’s maybe as weel for him wi’ his queer new-fashioned rifle; but at the heed o’ the pass is the next best place. The only thing is that ye’ll hev to tak’ sure aim, for there’s more room for them to stray, an’ ye may chance to git only a lang shot.”

“Well, then, it is not the place for me, for I am a poor shot,” said Barret; “besides, I have a fancy to stay here, where I am. You say it is a very good spot, Ivor, I understand?”

“Weel, it’s no’ that bad as a spote,” answered the keeper, with a grim smile, for he had not much opinion of Barret’s spirit as a sportsman; “but it’s ackward as the lawnd lies.”

“Never mind. I’ll stay here, and you know, laird, that I have some pleasant associations with it in connection with your niece.”

“That is more than Milly has,” returned the old gentleman, laughing. “However, have your way. Now, gentlemen, we must place ourselves quickly, for the beaters will soon be entering the wood. I will take you, Mr Mabberly, to a spot beyond the pass where you will be pretty sure of a shot. And MacRummle—where shall we place him?”

“He can do nothing wi’ the gun at a’, sir,” muttered the keeper, in a low voice, so that he might not be overheard. “I wad putt him doon at the white rock. He’ll git a lang shot at them there. Of course he’ll miss, but that’ll do weel enough for him—for he’s easy pleased; ony way, if he tak’s shootin’ as he tak’s fishin’, a mere sight o’ the deer, like the rise o’ a salmon, ’ll send him home happy.”

“Very well, Ivor, arrange as you think best. And how about Captain McPherson and McGregor?”

“I’ll tak’ care o’ them mysel’, sir.”

“Ye need na’ fash yer heed aboot us, laird,” said the skipper. “Bein’ more used to the sea than the mountains, we will be content to look on. Iss that not so, Shames?”

“That iss so—what-ë-ver,” returned the seaman.

“Well, come along then; the beaters must be at work now. How many did you get, Ivor?”

“I’m not exactly sure, sir,” returned the keeper; “there’s Ian Anderson an’ Tonal’ from Cove, an’ Mister Archie an’ Eddie, an’ Roderick—that’s five. Oo, ay, I forgot, there’s that queer English loon, Robin Tips—he’s no’ o’ much use, but he can mak’ a noise—besides three o’ Mr Grant’s men.”

“That’s plenty—now then—”

“Please, father,” said Junkie, who had listened with open eyes and mouth, as well as ears, for this was his first deer-stalk, “may I stop with Mr Barret?”

“Certainly, my boy, if Mr Barret does not object.”

Of course Mr Barret did not object, though he was rather surprised at this mark of preference.

“I say, me boy,” whispered Pat Quin, “ask av I may stop wid ye.”

Junkie looked at the Irishman doubtfully for a moment, then said—