THE BOOK OF THE PIKE 



and drag were both set upon the reel, line was ripped 

 off yard after yard. I could not pause in rriy paddling 

 to take the rod in my hand. For once my go-alone 

 proclivity had gotten me into trouble. I began to 

 fancy myself in the condition of the man who wanted 

 someone to help him let go the bear. 



I paddled straight for shore, shouting lustily, hoping 

 against hope that the three good men and true, in camp 

 beneath the trees, were at home and would hear my 

 cries. After what seemed an interminable time, a 

 slouch-hatted figure sauntered down to the water's 

 edge and bawled, "What's eatin' you?" ''Fish, muskie, 

 whale f I shouted in return. Fortunately, my camp- 

 mate was quick to grasp the significance of things and 

 soon a good, stout boat was putting out to my rescue. 

 I was compelled to hand my rod over to them — taking 

 on board a boatman was an impossibility in that sea — 

 and so they landed my biggest 'lunge of the season. 

 Now comes the moral of the tale: We took seven 

 good fish that windy day, trolling along the shore. 

 Let me add that seven good muskellunge is a bag any 

 quartet of anglers can be proud of anywhere. 



I have found in muskellunge fishing that success 

 depends quite largely upon the condition of the weather. 

 Hot, sultry days, with no sign of wind, are apt to 

 prove poor fish days, save very early in the morning, 

 and not always then. Upon the other hand, raw, cold 

 days, with high wind, are likely to prove very success- 

 ful. The wise angler will not spin yarns by the camp- 

 fire just because the weather is rough. 



In the foregoing narrative I have mentioned my 

 rod-holder, a simple contrivance, which is of utmost 

 worth to the go-alone fisherman. Indeed, I do not 



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