THE BOOK OF THE PIKE 



dugout, a canoe the red men had long since abandoned. 

 The boat was not large enough for two nor safe enough 

 for one; but my friend was 'lunge hungry, and nothing 

 would do but that he put out in quest of fighting 

 gray-sides. Seated on a stump, I watched him depart 

 with some misgivings. Before he had paddled twenty 

 rods (his paddle was a bit of board rudely fashioned 

 with the camp ax) he was compelled to stop and bail 

 out with his hat. Yet he stuck to his task, paddling 

 up and down along the shore, holding his heavy troll- 

 ing line — chalk line — between his teeth. 



Perhaps half an hour had passed, and I was just on 

 the point of turning away, the old man eight or ten 

 rods off shore opposite me, when his head was jerked 

 around until it seemed to me that it would be twisted 

 off. Dropping his paddle, he grabbed the line with 

 both hands, quickly winding it about his right wrist. 

 How that fish lunged and plunged, darting to left and 

 right, the old man pulling in line hand over hand the 

 while. I shouted encouragement and cheer from the 

 shore, noting the rapid settling of the decrepit boat 

 with alarm. Still the old man fought on, taking in line 

 whenever he could and paying out grudgingly when he 

 must, paying not the slightest attention to his craft. 



Came a moment when I could contain myself no 

 longer, and I shouted, "Hey, Dad, look out; she's 

 going down by the stern!" 



Came the instant answer, "Let 'er go! Gol dern ye, 

 don't ye 'spose I ken swim?" 



Untwisting the line from his wrist, the old man 

 slipped it between his teeth once more, just as the boat 

 quietly settled beneath the surface. Boldly and bravely 

 the old fellow, whose heart was young and strong, set 



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