CHAPTER VIII. 



LAKE MARIE AND BLUFF LAKE. SHELLFISH AND CLAM 

 CHOWDER. THE COLONEL'S PHOTOGRAPH. 



The first time I fished Lake Marie was with my old 

 friend, George Murrell. George and myself had made 

 a trifling bet as to who would catch the most fish. Had 

 I been as well acquainted as I am now with the astute 

 diplomacy of which Master George is capable, I would 

 never have gambled with him at all, under any con- 

 sideration. However, after fishing all day without a 

 bite, the shades of approaching evening found us both 

 fishless and disgusted: 



"Well, old man," I chuckled to myself, "there's one 

 consolation; you haven't won, anyhow!" 



Premature joy on my part! For the crafty rascal 

 had deliberately placed a small worm on his ho*ok, and 

 coolly dropped it into the gaping shell of an unsuspect- 

 ing clam that happened to be airing its vitals in a shal- 

 low puddle near by! The clam shut up mighty quick 

 when it felt the worm, and George hauled it up and 

 demanded the bet. I have often thought since what a 

 fool I was not to find another clam and make the bet a 

 tie; but, there, I never could think of the right thing to 

 do until it was too late. 



Speaking of shellfish reminds me of Tom Jennings. 

 There was a fellow in New York who had opened an 

 English ale house and shell oyster bar in connection. 

 The oysters were opened by an attendant and given to 

 the patrons on the half -shell. One day Tom Jennings 

 strolled into the bar and noticed a Frenchman holding 

 a huge half-shell in his hand, staring hard at an 

 enormous oyster which lay on it, with an air of wistful 

 longing. Torn was always ready to be agreeable, and 

 thinking the Frenchman was in a quandary, politely 



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