Free The Hills is Lonely by Lillian Beckwith

it dubiously.
    â€˜Have you got any bait?’ called the barber jovially.
    I admitted that I had no bait and knew nothing about getting bait, or using it if I should get it.
    â€˜I’ll come and get you bait,’ offered Johnny, who evidently had not forgotten my help in the earning of the sixpence.
    â€˜Thank you,’ I said. ‘But aren’t you waiting to get your hair cut?’
    â€˜Ach, they’ll no be finished for a while yet,’ he said, as he fell into step beside me.
    I called my thanks to Ruari and Bella and, conscious of the surreptitious smiles of the onlookers, balanced the rod carefully over my shoulder and set off down the lane.
    â€˜I doubt she’ll bring home a shark,’ Ruari’s ‘aside’ echoed down the lane and Johnny glanced anxiously at my face. I walked on indifferent, my companion padding silent and barefoot a yard or two to the side of me, wisely keeping his distance, for I was inclined to hurry, causing the fishing-rod to thrash around wildly.
    We made our way to a rocky part of the shore and here my young friend pointed out a suicidal boulder which overhung the water, insisting, in spite of my protests, that it was the only good fishing place along the whole length of the shore. It began slowly to dawn upon me that, for the sake of his own reputation, Johnny intended me to catch some fish that day. I yielded hesitantly and with a good deal of trepidation climbed, skated and tottered to the top of the boulder, glad that my residence in Bruach had accustomed me to such exercise. Had I refused to go my youthful friend would doubtless have commandeered the fishing-rod for himself and I should have been relegated to the position of bait-seeker.
    Meanwhile the boy was industriously investigating the deep pools among the rocks, grunting and wheezing the whole time like a man nine times his age.
    â€˜What is happening?’ I called.
    â€˜Ahhh!’ He gave a grunt which sounded more satisfied than the previous ones and held up a lively, wriggling crab. I felt a little nauseated when he wrenched off its legs and threw them into the sea, but the nausea was nothing to what I experienced when I saw him apply his mouth to the soft underpart of the body and dig his teeth so deeply into it that the shell almost sliced off a portion of his rudimentary nose.
    â€˜You’ll die!’ I gasped.
    â€˜I’ve been dead plenty times then,’ he replied seriously.
    I almost believed him.
    For a few moments Johnny chewed with gusto and then, spitting out the conglomerate mass, divided it into equal portions, which he laid carefully on a flat rock. I had just begun to wonder what on earth had given me the idea that fishing might be a pleasant way to spend an afternoon when the boy whipped out some dirty grey stuff from his pocket and commenced to work it about in his hands.
    â€˜What is that?’ I asked.
    â€˜Fleece,’ he answered shortly and, commanding me to watch so that I could learn to do it by myself, he took my rod and proceeded to attach one of the disgusting little morsels of chewed crab to the hook and then to wrap it carefully with the sheep’s wool.
    â€˜Goodness!’ I ejaculated with a smile. ‘Do fish need food and clothing then?’
    He treated my remark with the contempt it deserved and handed me the rod.
    â€˜Now what do I do?’ I asked.
    â€˜Put it out as far as you can,’ he enjoined me.
    Gingerly I stepped to the edge of the rock and prepared to do as my tutor advised. In vain I tried to recollect some angling photographs which might give me an idea how to cast; but perversely I could only recall a series of pictorial instructions on how to achieve a good golfing stance. I compromised by holding my rod as though it was a bayonet and I was about to charge.
    Having always had the notion that anglers spent their time as Constable depicted them, sitting comfortably beside quiet, tree-shaded rivers, lazily