90 Sporting Sketches 



" Here's your old bait now spit on it for luck 

 spit straight, or you won't catch nothin' ! " I sternly 

 command, and she gives a little shudder and strives 

 to obey. None of them ever does it right. Perhaps 

 she's afraid to hold the writhing worms near enough 

 to her mouth, or it may be she fails to comprehend 

 the grave importance of accurate spitting. Anyway 

 she don't half spit, which, to a leader of the free 

 folk who, when he had lost a tooth, could nail a 

 bumble-bee at five yards' range, seems some- 

 thing like a crime. "I I tried my best, and I 

 did put a little on one end," she almost whimpers; 

 but a scornful " Umph ! " is all the satisfaction she 

 gets. 



In a minute, more and better worms are adorning 

 my own hook and are artistically spat upon. Then 

 the split-cork float is shifted just so, and the bait is 

 noiselessly dropped near the upstream side of the 

 log. The cork has drifted barely a foot when it 

 halts in a suspicious manner, goes almost under, then 

 steadies. Brown paws clinch upon the rod ; brows 

 lower to a savage frown, and eyes glare at the cork 

 as though they would set it afire. It is an awful 

 moment. 



" Where'll I fish ? please tell me," says a meek 

 voice. 



" Shut your head you'll scare him ! Drop 

 your old hook-in-hole-right-front," I fairly hiss, for 

 the free folk don't like to be bothered when there's 

 something doing. A solemn plunk tells that her 

 bait has gone somewhere. But my cork is nodding 

 again. Tug-tug-plop ! under "it goes, and in a 

 moment the pole bends. There is a brief zig-zag 



