The Black Tor by George Fenn

Author:George Fenn
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pronoun

Chapter Sixteen.

How Mark’s Sister lost her Whip.

FATE SEEMED TO BE determined that the young people of the rival families should become intimate, in spite of all the stringent rules laid down by the heads; for Ralph was out one day, making a round, when it occurred to him that he would call upon Master Rayburn, to let him see how well the wound was healing up, and to say a few words of thanks to the old man for his kindness and attention.

He found the object of his visit seated in a kind of grotto, shaded by a great sycamore, with his doublet off, hat on the floor, and beautifully white sleeves rolled up, busily at work, tying up some peculiar little combinations of wool, hair, and feathers, to the back of a hook; and as the lad approached, he held up the curious object by the piece of horsehair to which it was tied.

“Well, patient,” he said, “what do you think of that?”

“Nothing at all,” cried the lad. “No fish would ever take that. What do you call it?”

“A bumble-bee, and the fish will take it, Mr Cleversides; but not if they see a big lubberly boy staring at them with his arm in a sling, or an old grey-headed man, either, Ralph. There, don’t frown. It’s very nice to be a big lubberly boy; much better than being a worn-out old man, with not much longer to live. Ah, you laugh at my bumble-bee, and it certainly is not like one, but the best I can do, and I find it a great bait for a chevin, if used with guile. Take these two, Ralph, boy, and early some sunny morning go down behind the trees, where they overhang the stream, and don’t show so much as your nose, let alone your shadow, for it would send them flying. Then gently throw your fly.”

(Note: a chevin is a chub.)

“How can you,” said Ralph quickly, “with the boughs overhanging the water?”

“Good, lad! what I expected you to say; but there is where the guile comes in. I don’t want you to throw your fly into the water, but to let it drop on the leaves just above it, a few inches or a foot, and then shake the line tenderly, till the bee softly rolls off, and drops naturally from a leaf, hardly making a splash. Then you’ll find that there will be a dimple on the water, the smacking of two lips, and the chevin will have taken the bait. Then it is your fault if it is not laid in your creel.”

“Thank you, Master Rayburn; I’ll try. I haven’t had a fish since I was wounded.”

“No: it would have been bad work if you had gone whipping about, and irritating the two little holes in your arm. Well, how is it?”

“Oh, quite well now,” said the lad, as he carefully hooked the bees in his cap, and twisted the hair to which they were attached under the

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