Drumsheugh gazed long into the red caverns and saw former things, till at last he smiled and spake. “Hoo langis't since ye guddled for troot, Weelum?” “Saxty year or sae; div ye mind yon hole in the Sheuchie burn, whar it comes doon frae the muir? They used to lie and feed in the rin o' the water. “A' wes passin' that wy lairst hairst, an' a' took a thocht and gied ower tae the bank. The oak looks juist the same, an' a' keekit through, an' if there wesna a troot ablow the big stane. If a' hedna been sae stiff a' wud hae gien doon and tried ma luck again.” “A' ken the hole fine, Weelum,” burst out Drumsheugh; “div ye mind where a' catchit yon twa-punder in the dry simmer? it wes the biggest ever taen oot o' the Sheuchie; a' telt ye a' next day at schule.” “Ye did that, an' ye blew aboot that troot for the haie winter, but nane o' us ever saw't, an' it wes juist a bare half pund tae begin wi'; it 's been growin', a' doot; it 'ill be five afore ye 're dune wi't, Drum.” “Nane o' yir impidence, Weelum. A' weighed it in Luckie Simpson's shop as a' gied hame, an' it made twa pund as sure as a'm sitting here; but there micht be a wecht left in the scale wi't.” “Fishers are the biggest leears a' ever cam across, and ye've dune yir best the nicht, Drum; but eh, man, guddlin' wes a graund ploy,” and the doctor got excited. “A' think a'm at it aince mair, wi' ma sleeves up tae the oxters, lying on ma face, wi' naethin' but the een ower the edge o' the stane, an' slippin' ma hands intae the caller water, an' the rush o' the troot, and grippin' the soople slidderin' body o't an' throwin't ower yir head, wi' the red spots glistening on its whlfe belly; it wes michty.” “Ay, Weelum, an' even missin't wes worth while; tae feel it shoot atween yir hands an' see it dash doon the burn, maltin' a white track in the shallow water, an' ower a bit fall and oot o' sicht again in anither hole.” They rested for a minute to revel in the past, and in the fire the two boys saw water running over gravel, and deep, cool holes beneath overhanging rocks, and little waterfalls, and birch boughs dipping into the pools, and speckled trout gleaming on the grass. Maclure's face kindled into mirth, and he turned in his chair. “Ye 're sayin' naethin' o' the day when the burn wes settlin' aifter a spate, and ye cam tae me an' Sandy Baxter an' Netherton's brither Squinty, an' temptit us tae play the truant, threepin' ye hed seen the troot juist swarmin' in the holes.” “A' tried John Baxter tae,” interrupted Drumsheugh, anxious for accuracy since they had begun the story, “though he didna come. But he wudna tell on's for a' that. Hillocks lat it oot at the sight o' the tawse. 'They 're up the Sheuchie aifter the troot,' he roared, an' the verra lassies cried 'clype' (tell tale) at him gaein' hame.”