THE BOOK OF THE PIKE 



time to swallow the bait, or perhaps it just happened 

 to be insecurely hooked. At any rate, just as he brought 

 his capture to the surface it gave a convulsive flop 

 and fell back into the hole. My companion very 

 foolishly plunged his whole arm into the water in an 

 ineffectual attempt to grasp the puzzled fish, but failed 

 to gain a secure hold — a very difficult thing to do — 

 before the great pike had found the opening into the 

 water below. My friend said some things that tem- 

 pered the wind to the ice fisherman, all right. 



Now I had unbounded faith in the first hole cut, 

 for no good reason under the sun, it is true. But when- 

 ever did an angler have a reason for the faith that is 

 in him, I should like to know? I did not pet nor 

 baby it, simply left it to itself, which is sometimes the 

 wisest plan. At my second visit I found the skein of 

 reserve line pulled out and the minnow gone. With- 

 out saying anything — for language was utterly in- 

 adequate — I baited up, using the largest minnow in 

 the pail. I expected great things of that set. No, I 

 did not spit on the hook. 



My companion won first blood by securing a lively 

 two-pound fish, which put up quite a fight, but was 

 finally drawn out upon the ice to kick and flop its life 

 away. It seemed to me that the lucky angler was 

 needlessly arrogant and heady over his bit of luck. 

 You see, I could not understand why he, a comparative 

 greenhorn, should catch the first fish, when I, an old 

 hand, caught nothing, like the apostles of old, after 

 toiling all night. Well, Luck, especially Fisherman's 

 Luck, has always been a perverse, unreasoning jade, 

 any way, visiting whomsoever she chooses without 

 rhyme or reason. Just to see how patient I could be 



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