160 ‘COME DUCK SHOOTING WITH ME” 
from side to side but had little chance to win. They 
were certainly game. They ran lighter than we ex- 
pected. Our largest weighed five pounds; the average 
a pound and a half. Unless badly hooked, we placed 
them alive in the well, amidships of the rowboat. On 
landing, we kept the largest in a dam, fashioned on shore, 
trophies to show on our return to the hotel. But man 
proposes and fate disposes—the last night of our stay 
a steamer passed upstream close to shore. Her back- 
wash melted down our mud dam and all our bass 
escaped. Florida bass are good eating under certain 
conditions. Get up before sunrise, row your own 
boat, broil the bass you catch over hot coals, and eat 
for breakfast. 
Our stay on the St. John’s River was all too short. 
Better sport was reported on Indian River. It was 
decided to try it. 
The road to New Smyrna was fine white sand, much 
of it an inch or two under water, through a pine forest. 
It took two days to make the trip. The night was 
passed at the Half-Way House. 
Two Florida ‘‘crackers,’’ father and son, were waiting 
there for some freight, a sack of cornmeal and a side of 
bacon. Seeing we were sportsmen they began talking 
guns. Both seemed much interested in my new breech- 
loading rifle. The father especially was greatly taken 
with it. He kept opening and shutting the breech and 
seemed to hate giving it back to me. Finally he re- 
marked: 
‘“Your gun seems kind of tasty to load, but I’d hate 
to shoot any gun that opens that-away in the middle. 
Looks like she might blow up.” 
