Wee MacGreegor (The Idler, 1903)/The Robinsons Go Fishing

RANPAW," cried Macgregor from the doorstep, "are ye no' comin' oot to the fishin' wi' me an' Paw an' Maw?"

"Na, na," Mr. Purdie replied, coming out of the parlour, where he had just settled down to his after-tea pipe. "I'm gettin' ower auld fur gaun oot in wee boats."

"Are ye feart?" "Ay, I'm feart a big fish gets the baud o' me," said the old man good-naturedly. "Ye wudna like to see a whale soomin' awa' wi' yer puir auld Granpaw, wud ye, Macgreegor?"

"N—naw," the youngster replied with the slightest hesitation, perhaps tempted for a moment by the exciting vision suggested by Mr. Purdie's words. "Naw, I wudna like that, Granpaw. But ye tell't me afore there wis nae whales at Rothesay."

"'Deed, ye're the yin fur mindin' things, laddie! But I wis jist jokin' aboot the whale. It's the cauld I'm feart fur, an' the wat. It gets intil ma auld banes, ye see. So yer Granmaw an' me'll jist bide in the hoose an' tak' guid care o' Jeannie till ye come back wi' yer fish.... Here yer Paw an' Maw comin'. Are ye ready fur the road?"

"Ay, I'm ready."

John and Lizzie appeared from the kitchen, where the former had been playing with his daughter while the latter helped her mother to wash up. Lizzie regarded her son for an instant, and said a trifle sharply: "Did I no' tell ye to pit on yer auld troosers, Macgreegor?"

"1 dinna like my auld yins, Maw."

"Weel, ye're no' gaun oot to the fishin' in yer guid yins. I'm no' gaun to ha'e yer nice new navy-bew yins spiled afore ye've had them a week. The saut watter'll jist ruin them. Awa' an' pit on yer auld yins this meenit!"

"Sailors aye wears navy-bew claes, Maw, an' ma auld yins is faur ower ticht," said her son appealingly.

"I'm no' heedin' whit sailors wears. Weans maun wear whit they're tell't."

"But my auld yins is faur ower"

"Macgreegor canna help growin', Lizzie," interposed John.

His wife took no notice of the observation, and Macgregor, realising that his case was hopeless, retired to do as he was bidden. In about five minutes he returned wearing an exaggerated look of martyrdom.

"Are ye no' wantin' to gang oot to the fishin'?" his mother inquired. "Ye needna come unless ye like."

"I want to gang oot to the fishin', Maw," he returned in a subdued tone.

"Weel, ye'll need to pit on yer to-pcoat, dearie," said Lizzie, losing her severity.

"It's no' cauld. I'm no' needin' ma top-coat."

"Pit on yer top-coat when I tell ye!" she said firmly.

Macgregor donned the garment in question.

"See an' catch a nice haddie fur ma breakfast, Macgreegor," said Mr. Purdie, cheerfully, with the kindly idea of closing up the little rift.

"An' a wee whitin' fur mines," cried Mrs. Purdie, appearing on the scene.

"Dod, ay!" laughed John, taking his son's hand and gently gripping his wife's arm. "Macgreegor'll attend to yer orders jist as if he wis a fishmonger. Wull ye no', Macgreegor?"

"Dod, ay!" said Macgregor, suddenly recovering his spirits under his father's genial influence.

"Macgreegor! I'm shair I've tell't ye a thoosan' times ye're no' to say" Lizzie began.

"Come awa',come awa'!" cried John, "or we'll no' get a boat the nicht!"

Lizzie waved an adieu to her daughter in Mrs. Purdie's arms, and the trio set out for the shore.

"Can I get oarin', Paw?" the youngster inquired when the boat-hirer had given the craft a farewell push which sent it some five yards from the shore.

"Na, na," said Lizzie. "Yer Paw'll tak' us to the fishin' place hissel' ... John, fur ony favour, dinna get in front o' thon steamer!"

"It's twa-three mile awa', Lizzie."

"Weel, keep close to the shore onywey."

"But it's a guid bit oot to the fishin' place," said John.

"I'm no' heedin'. Ye've got to keep close to the shore till the steamboat's by," said the nervous Lizzie.

It was Macgregor's turn. He sniggered rudely and remarked: "The steamboat's by lang syne. It's sailin' awa' frae us!"

"Dod, but the wean's richt!" cried his father, with a laugh.

"Aweel," said Lizzie, impatiently, "awa' to the fishin' place as quick's ye like, an' if we're a' droondit I'll ha'e an easy conscience onywey."

"Hooch, ay!" We'll a' ha'e easy consciences!" exclaimed her husband jocularly.

"Ye micht ken better nor to mak' fun o' solemn subjects, John." Mrs. Robinson spoke reprovingly and possibly a trifle offendedly.

John did the best thing that could be done under the circumstances. He kept silence and rowed his hardest till they reached the fishing ground, where a small cluster of boats had already anchored.

"Paw! Thonder a man catched a fish!" said Macgregor, excitedly, half-rising. "Keep yer sate, dearie," said his mother, smiling with recovered good-nature, as she laid a restraining hand on his shoulder.

"Paw, can I get flingin' in the anchor?"

For once in his life John said "No!"

"Whit wey, Paw? I wud mak' a graun' splash!"

"Na, na, Macgreegor," put in Lizzie. "The anchor's a dangerous thing. There wis yinst twa laddies oot in a boat, and yin o' them wis castin' the anchor, an' he gaed ower wi' 't an' wis cairrit down to the bottom o' the sea, an' droondit. Ay!"

"Whit wey did the ither laddie no' pu' him up?"

"He—he wis ower heavy."

"Whit wey did he no' sclim' up the rape hissel'?"

"His claes had gotten fankled in the anchor."

Macgregor considered for a few seconds.

"Is that a story, Maw?" he demanded.

"Mercy!" exclaimed Lizzie, as John flung the anchor overboard and the rope ran out.

"I cud ha'e made a bigger splash," remarked the boy. "Maw, wis thon a true story?"

"Ye better be gettin' the lines ready," said John, unconsciously coming to his wife's rescue. "Macgreegor, dae ye ken hoo to pit on yer baits?"

"Ay, fine!... The baits is awfu' slippy, Paw."

"See an' no' let the hooks catch yer fingers."

"Nae fears, Paw!" sang out Macgregor, who had already bated one hook with a mussel and the other with one of the knees of his knickerbockers.

"John," sighed Lizzie, "I dinna like tichin' thae slithery beasts. Are they leevin'?"

"Na, na, wumman, they're no' leevin'. Jist bide a wee, an' I'll come an' bait yer line fur ye," returned John, cheerfully. He made the anchor rope fast, and came cautiously to tihe stern. "Whit's ado, Macgreegor?" he asked of his son, who was struggling with the hook in his nether garments.

"It's a mercy I made him change his guid troosers," Mrs. Robinson observed, when her husband with his knife had, not unskilfully, extracted the errant hook.

"If I had had on ma guid troosers, I wudna ha'e let the hook catch them," said Macgregor.

"Mphm!" murmured Lizzie.

"Thae auld yins is that oosie, they wud catch onythin'."

"Haud yer tongue, Macgreegor," said Lizzie, "an' see if ye canna catch a fish."

His father, having put the baits in order, Macgregor dropped the sinker and hooks over the side, and gradually unwound the line.

"Paw, it'll no gang doon ony furder," he said, after a short silence.

"Ye'll be at the bottom, ma mannie," John explained.

"But I dinna feel ony fish."

"Patience! patience! Pu' up a wee bit, an' keep yer line hingin', an' when ye feel onythin' at it, gi'e it a chugg."

John illustrated what he meant, and proceeded with baiting his wife's line.

"Paw, I think I feel somethin'!"

"Weel, gi'e a chugg."

Macgregor jerked so strongly that he fell off his narrow seat, upset the bait dish over his mother's feet, and caused her to cry:—

"Oh, John, John! I kent we wis in fur a wattery grave!"

John smiled reassuringly as he assisted his son back to his seat and set about gathering up the mess of homeless shellfish. "Dinna fash yersel', Lizzie," he said, when he had baited her line. "Macgreegor's fine, an' he'll no' tummle again. Noo fur the fish!"

But the fish were not so enthusiastic, and at the end of about twenty minutes of silence and expectation, Macgregor observed:—

"Paw, I dinna feel onythin' yet."

"Aw, ye've got to gi'e the fish time," his father replied hopefully. "I expec' they'll be smellin' aboot the baits the noo an' gettin' up their appetites, as it were."

"I wisht I cud see richt doon to the bottom. Paw. If I seen a fish I wud jist nick it wi' ma hooks."

"Wud ye?"

"Ay, wud I!"

"Macgreegor," said Lizzie, who was beginning to feel at home in the boat and to enjoy the calm sea and mild air, "ye sudna boast aboot whit ye ken ye cudna dae; sud he, John?"

"Och, whit's the odds as lang's ye're happy? Are ye feelin' the cauld, Lizzie?" said her husband.

"No' a bit. I'm enjyin' masel' rale weel, John," she returned.

"That's guid!" he exclaimed in a tone of supreme satisfaction. "I'm shair the fish'll shin be comin'.... Macgreegor, pu' up yer line, and see if yer baits is a' richt."

The youngster hauled in, to find that the baits were intact, showing no signs of having been touched.

"Never heed," said John. "Let doon yer line again.... Ha'e ye had ony nibbles, Lizzie?"

"No' yet, John," replied his wife, whose interest was absorbed by a youn couple in a neighbouring boat. "I wud like to see Macgreegor gettin' yin," she added in an undertone.

"Dod, ay! I wud like him to get the first fish."

"Ay, it would be nice if he got the first fish.... Macgreegor, ye're no' to lean ower the side o' the boat like that."

"Whit wey, Maw?"

"Because ye'll maybe fa' in and get droondit."

"Nae fears, Maw. I wis jist lukin' at a jeely-fish. Whit wey dae they ca' them jeely-fish, Paw?"

"Because they're like jeely, Macgreegor."

"Ach,they're no' a bit like jeely. They wudna mak' a nice jeely piece, Paw, wud they?"

"Maybe no'," said John, jerking at his line. "Na; I doot they wudna mak' a vera nice jeely piece, Macgreegor," he continued with another jerk. "'Deed, no! Fur there is a big difference atween a jeely fish an' a jeely piece—is there no', Lizzie?" "Ay," said Mrs. Robinson, as though she had just been awakened from a dream. "Thon lad an' lass is gaun to get marrit, I'm thinkin'," she added, indicating the couple she had been regarding.

John jerked his line once more. "Ye're the yin to notice!" he said to his wife. Then to his son: "Macgreegor, ye micht tak' ma line till I see if yer baits is a' richt. Change places wi' me. Canny noo, an' dinna frichtin' yer Maw.... That's a clever laddie!... Haud on to ma line, an' maybe ye'll bring us luck."

Macgregor changed places with his father, and the latter, with a wink at Mrs. Robinson, who seemed to be somewhat suspicious, began to pull in the line.

But ere he had drawn up three fathoms there was an excited yell from Macgregor.

"Paw! There's a fish on ma line! It's chuggin' like mad! Whit'll I dae, Paw?"

"Pu' it up, ma mannie," said John, trying to conceal his delight.

Macgregor, gurgling with excitement, hauled in the line, and soon, with his father's assistance, a fine fish—quite an unusually big fish for Rothesay Bay—was flopping in the bottom of the boat.

"Is 't a haddie, Paw?" cried the youngster, while John extracted the hook. "Is 't a whitenin'?"

"A whitin'? Na! It's a code, Macgreegor."

"Can I get bashin' it, Paw?"

"Macgreegor," exclaimed his mother, "ye mauna be savage."

"I dinna like codes," cried Macgregor. "They mak' code ile! I want to bash its face!"

"Whisht, man!" said John. "It's a bonny fish, an' ye're no' to spile it. It'll dae fine fur wur breakfast. My! ye sud be prood at catchin' sic a graun fish."

The boy looked proud, and refrained from his brutal intentions.

"Did ye ever catch as big a fish, Paw?" he inquired.

"Never!" said his father. "But you're the lucky yin, Macgreegor."

"John," put in Lizzie, "the wind's gettin' up." She was quite right. The smooth sea was quickly rippled, and within five minutes the ripples turned into little breakers.

"I want to catch anither yin, Paw," said Macgregor.

"I want to get hame," said Lizzie.

John obliged his wife. He pulled up the lines, then the anchor, and got out the oars. "We'll gang oot to the fishin' anither nicht," he said to his son. "It's gaun to be stormy."

"Ach!" ejaculated Macgregor, disgustedly.

"John," whispered Lizzie, when they were safely ashore, "it wis rale nice o' ye to let the laddie think he had catched the fish."

"Tits, wumman!" said John, smiling.

"Paw," said Macgregor, a little later, "I'm vexed ye didna catch a fish the nicht."

"Aw, ye're ower smairt fur maist folk, ma mannie." "Ay; I'm gey smairt, Paw."