Puck — June 4, 1879 — page 11: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

203 ARCHIE GASCOYNE, A ROMANCE OF SKYE. WRITTEN EXFRESSLY FOR PUCK, BY JOHN FRASER, Autuor oF «Effie: a Tale of Two Worlds; «Essays from the Westminster;” Duncan Fenwick's Daughter; «Fair Fragoletta;” «Scottish Chapbooks;" ‘A Dream of a Life;”” “Legends of Lorne;” * Lone Glengartney,”” etc., etc., etc. CHAPTER VIL, FTER a supper in which Bilston exerted himself nobly to give his visitors a genuine Scotch “tousy tea,” and to which our friends did ample justice—the Doctor especially distinguishing himself by prodigies of gastro- nomical prowess—Archie and Bilston myste- riously disappeared, as did also a choice se- lection of rods and fishing-tackle, while Bob descended into the depths of the fore cabin with the laudable gbject of Delilahing the Scottish Samson and making a night of it. ‘And a night of it they did make, Ar- gyleshire gamekeepers and gillics are famous for their powers of absorbing Glenlivet, and Hamish, the keeper, was no exception, At first, the Doctor began to entertain grave doubts that his efforts were going to prove a failure, if indeed his companion did not sus- ct a rat, and was determined on circumvent- ing his treacherous entertainer, so great was Hamish'’s incipient modesty, and so apparently genuine his affected dislike to the stimulating glass. “Na, na, Doctor, she'll no take all that, in- deed she'll no; its is far too much, and she'll have a long way to go to-night, and she'll hev to look for poachers on the ruver first.” Saying which Hamish put down his half- finished glass with an air of stern and appa- rently invincible determination that made Bob shudder. 7 A little urging from that guileless youth, how- ever, a few more ‘No another drop,” ‘“ She'll no tek any more,” and finally, as the great brawny hand wandered, as if unconsciously, and with constitutional reluctance, in the di- rection of the gill, a “ Weel, weel, since ye're so pressing, Doctor, she'll jist take this other taste,” and Hamish took off his glass. After that the Doctor felt secure of victory, and as, under the influence of repeated liba- tions, Hamish’s tongue became unloosed, and his native shyness in the presence of a Southern gradually thawed and finally disappeared, he developed a power of suction and volubility of speech that first amused, then frightened, and finally fairly appalled his listener. “And so you'll be from the south, Doctor, aud you'll be going to fush and shoot up in Skye; but she'll not believe in Sassenach’s fish- ing at all, at all, Excepting wan that kem to Oban thuss time last year, they're all poor things with the fushing-rod and gun, ‘Ther wass wan party of shentlemen kem to the “ big hoose"’ wass Martinmas last, when I wass keeper to the Laird off Lunga, and they wass London shentlemen, and ferry grand and ruch, and they had as more rods and guns and dogs as Breadalbin humself, and they could not fush nor shoot so much as a kailrunt. But they wass affa keen on the fushin’ the first day, and noh- thing wud do but we must net the big preserved pond on the river, wher the sahmun (salmon) wass as thick as bees in a hive; an’ the Laird wass no wullin’, but they wass great shentle- men and be did nott like to refuse. So we went out in the morning with the big net—my- self and big John Ruah and Erchie Bhan and sum more, and we hauled the big net, and we got more as sixty salmon the first haul, and sum of them as big as a muchibeerach (por- poise)—yuss and bigger. But ther wass wann off them as wass bigger than enny of them, and the Laird wass rale proud off it, and so wass we. An’what doo you think but nothing wud do wan of the Sassenachs but he wud put his hook into the big sahmun and let. it off in the river, an’ he wud play it!” “ But you didn’t let him?" interrupted the Doctor. “Och, if it wass left to me, he wud not hev got leave to do it for more than twenty gulls Gills) off the best; but the Laird dud nott like too refuse, and we had to put the hook into the big fush, and it wass big John Ruah that did it. And I went to hitn and I says, says I, John Ruah, you'll be a foolish man’ — but I whispered it low that the Sassenachs wood not hear -—‘John Ruah,’ said I, ‘give it three great big blows on the head with the clip and make it silly.” But John wass frightened, and says John Ruah, ‘Do it yourself, Hamish.’ And so she'll took the clip and she'll give the big fush three great blows on the head and she'll mek him silly. And when she thought he wass silly enough she let him off, and the Sassenach began playing him, and at the first he wood not play, for he wass silly. But he got better inn a luttle, for she had not made him silly enough, and the Sassenach could not fush no more as a plough, and I saw he wass going to let him off, and I jumped to him and catched the fushing-rod, and says I, ‘Guv it to me, sir—he'll get off!’ And the Sassenach was mad, and he said, “ Get off, fellow,” and the Laird—though I could see he was not well pleased with the Sassenach—he told me to stand back. And I did, and by Got the fish broke away that minute, and it took all the line with it, and the fushing-rod, too, and the Sassenach was at the end off it, and it took him too, and we had to fush him out. And I turned to John Ruah and says I, Got dam, John, I was a dam fool I did not knock himsillier;’ and says John to me, ‘ You should have knocked the Sassenach silly, Hamish;’ and says 1 to John, ‘He wass silly enough and more, John, be- fore.’ And—yes, she'll take another glass, and your good health, Doctor,” and Hamish po- lished off another. The recital of his grievances affected Ha- mish so much that he began to drink more ra- pidly than ever, till at last, in the middle of a story about a monster “ pig” (pike) he had killed in Loch Awe with a grape, he fell fast asleep. . With a sigh of relief Bob got up from the table, his head buzzing confusedly, for, with all his care, he had taken more than was quite good for him, and scrambled upon deck to find the pale moon shining from a cloud-flecked but glorious summer sky. The night wind from the lake was delightfully refreshing and cool, and the mighty shadows on Cruachan were piled thick, black and deep. « By Jove,” said Bob to himself, as he lit a fresh cigar and stepped on shore, “ what fel- lows these are to drink! I’m half afraid to venture along the bank for fear of falling, but I should like to come.upon Gascoyne and Bil- ston, Hope they have got some fish. But what fellows these are to drink!”—and rubbing his heated forehead with his hand, the speaker slowly sauntered down the Awe. _ Meanwhile Archie and his guide had had a right royal time of it, while the Professor lay quietly asleep in his bunk, and by the time the day had fairly broken, they had captured a fine salmon each, besides several goodly- sized grilse and trout. By this hour it was time for them to return to the steamer, for fear of being caught by the Laird or some of his de- pendents, and when the trio got back they found the Professor emerging from his cabin, and Hamish, apparently none the worse of his night’s potations, strapping his plaid around him and calling for his dog. To the fishers, however, he was judiciously blind, and we dare say had the reward he wanted, as he and Bilston retired into the fore- cabin, and whea Hamish re-emerged he was wiping his lips with his coat-sleeve, and his face had an even ruddier glow than usual. Shortly afterwards the Oban coach came rattling up, and, after bidding Captain Young and the steward a cordial good-bye, our three travelers mounted the stage box and drove off. ‘They stayed that night in Oban, and early next morning — after telegraphing to Mac- donald of Eleninver to meet them with the carriage at Portree that evening—they set off in the steamer for Skye. CHAPTER VIII. Over a sun-lit sea, Under an azure sky, My love came wooing’ me, With the love-light in his eye; And my hand in his, and his in mine, Felt a thrill we two could alone divine. . . . Over a raging sea, Under an angry sky, My lover went forth from me, With a TeRRor in his eye; ‘And my hand in his, and his in mine, Shall never again one thought divine. Portree may be called the capital of Skye; indged it is the only place on the Island which by any stretch of courtesy can be called a town, or even, we might almost say, a village. Its resident population can hardly exceed seven or eight hundred, if it reaches that, though in summer this number is largely increased by the army of tourists and strangers who annually in- vade Skye, and make Portree their headquar- ters. There is virtually but one thoroughfare, that running down close to the pier; the other streets, very few and short, radiating from it at right angles on either side. Portree boasts its courthouse, county build- ing, prison, postal and telegraph office, two banks, and, like most Scottish villages, a super- fluity of churches. It also possesses two large and well-conducted hotels, and «as its physical ailments attended to by no fewer than three doctors. In summer, under bright skies and surrounded by the sunlit ocean, Portree is quite pretty and picturesque, its quaint little white-washed houses embosomed amid green trees, while away be- hind it stretch miles of cultivated field, of woodland and hill and glen, But in winter, when the tiny fleet of fishing- skiff and yacht have folded their white wing, and brown, and sought shelter from the stormss and the gay crowd of visitors has taken its de- parture for the season, Portree is about as un- interesting a spot as can well be imagined. comicbooks.com