THE BOOK OF THE PIKE 



At four-thirty we decided to pull up and began tak- 

 ing in our lines. One by one we folded them away, 

 and at last I approached the first line set, remarking 

 with an assumption of certainty which I was far from 

 feeling, "Now I will show you a real great pike." I 

 bent over the hole. The line was pulled off to one side 

 and was stretched down taut as a fiddlestring. Even 

 the thick branch to which the end of the line was 

 fastened was bending with the strain. I took the line 

 in my hand gingerly and pulled gently. A dead weight. 

 I exerted more strength. Something down below was 

 galvanized into sudden activity, and the line was pulled 

 through my fingers. Glad was I that the line was 

 new and strong, as well as securely tied to a green wil- 

 low as thick through as my wrist. 



I have fought some worthy fish in my time both 

 with fly-rod and casting-stick, and there have been 

 times when I trembled for the integrity of my tackle; 

 times when I found it hard to breathe from sheer ex- 

 citement; but I must confess to the reader here that, 

 for heart-rending anxiety and smothering excitement, 

 those long moments out there on the glistening ice, 

 clinging to that stinging, burning .chalk line, has them 

 all beaten to a frazzle. The fish was well spent when 

 I first undertook to lift the set. He might have been 

 playing himself for three hours; otherwise I am certain 

 something would have parted. My companion danced 

 around the hole, shouting advice and abjurations. To 

 the first I paid no attention; to the second I mentally 

 responded "Amen!" Fortunately there came an in- 

 stant when the fish's nose was pointed into the hole. 

 I pulled at the "psychological instant," and the great 

 pike shot out upon the ice. Such a great pike ! Such a 



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