Part 17 (1/2)

”Not I; but I should like you to make me half a dozen more.”

”All right; I will; a dozen, if you like. They suit our waters fine.

That's old Boil O's pattern. He taught me; he used to say that the proper way to make a fly was to watch the real one first, and make it as near as you could like that--not take a copy from somebody's book.”

”Quite right,” said the artist; ”old Boil O's a philosopher.”

”I wish he was a sensible man instead,” said Will. ”I've been thinking, Mr Manners, that as you live here and know him so well--”

”That I don't,” cried the artist. ”I never knew less of any man in my life.”

”Well, never mind that; you live here, and I think it would be very nice if you'd get hold of him and talk sensibly, like you can.”

”Thank you for the compliment, my young judge.”

”I say, don't poke fun, Mr Manners; I want to talk seriously.”

”That's right; I like to hear you sometimes, my young joker. I wouldn't give a sou for a fellow who was all fun.”

”Well, look here, Mr Manners; I want you to let him see what a jolly old stupid he is making of himself. Of course father can't come and ask him to return to work, but I know that dad would shake hands with him at once, and be as pleased as Punch.”

”Well,” said the artist, dryly, ”I can't quite see in my own mind your grave and reverend parent looking as pleased as Punch; it doesn't seem quite in his way.”

”Of course not; but you know what I mean.”

”Well, I guess at it, boy; and you mean what is quite right. I should be very glad to do anything for either of you, and to put an end to a melancholy state of affairs; but look here, my dear boy, I don't think that I should be doing right as an outsider, such a bird of pa.s.sage as I am, to say more to Drinkwater than I have already done. He knows what I think; but I want to be friends with everybody here, and I feel sure that by interfering further I should be turning ray landlord into an enemy. I am obliged to say 'no.' And now, if you please, we'll go on with our fly-making, and get our tackle ready for another turn at the trout.”

”Well, I am very sorry,” said Will, sadly, ”and--”

”Whatever's that?” cried Josh, springing to his feet and staring wildly through the open window.

”Eh? Whatever's what?” said the artist, slowly, looking in the same direction. ”Why, as Pat would say, it isn't to-morrow morning, and the sun never rises in the west, or he'd be getting up now. Why, by all that's wonderful, it's--”

”Fire! Fire!” shouted Will, wildly.

”Yes,” cried Josh, in a husky voice, ”and it's at the mill.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

GOOD SERVANT--BAD MASTER.

There was no stopping to put away artificial fly material. Hat and caps were s.n.a.t.c.hed up, and the next minute all three were running as fast as the rugged stones and the dangerous nature of the path would allow, downward towards the mill, their faces suffused by the warm glow which rose from out of the valley beyond the trees.

For a few moments the pat, pat of the runners' feet, and the rattle and rush of the stones they dislodged were the only sounds to be heard.

Then came a loud shout from below, a confused murmur of voices, the wild shriek of a woman, followed by the hoa.r.s.e voice of a man, shouting ”Fire! Fire!” the last time to be drowned by the loud clang of the mill's big bell, whose tongue seemed to be giving its utterances in a wild, hysterical way, as rope and wheel were set in motion by a pair of l.u.s.ty arms.

There were a couple more zigzags to descend, which never had seemed so long to Will before, and meanwhile the buzz of voices, mingled with shouted orders, grew louder and more confused.

”Shall we never get there?” panted Will.