214 Sporting Sketches 



" Guess I'll wet you, son, so's you can get under 

 next trial," I remarked as I shoved him under. At 

 once the small paddles were busy, and when a few 

 seconds later the hold was relaxed, he sped deeper 

 down. For fully a minute there was no sign of 

 him, and my heart sank, for there was a nasty pos- 

 sibility that his terror might have driven him too 

 deeply among the bottom growths. Then I remem- 

 bered something. A hasty stroke of the paddle 

 shot the canoe ahead, when a glance astern detected 

 the small rascal tossing in the swirl and kicking his 

 prettiest to submerge himself. He had first come 

 up under the canoe, and probably had remained 

 with only his head above water for some seconds. 

 He swam to the bank in short order, and unless he 

 happened to be among those that tried to fly 

 through some of my lead the next autumn, I never 

 saw him again. 



A peculiar capture of a half-grown drake may be 

 worthy of reference. My comrade upon the day in 

 question was then a strapping young man peace 

 be to his ashes ! and we were fishing for black bass 

 on the Thames River, a stream beloved of wood- 

 duck. Where we were the water was perhaps 

 eighty yards broad and twenty feet deep. The time 

 was early August, and the day very sultry. We two 

 were, perhaps, the greatest water-dogs in the county. 



" I can beat you across for a dollar ! " poor Kit 

 suddenly exclaimed. He knew he couldn't, and all 

 he really meant was to have a swim. In mighty 

 few seconds we were peeled to the buff (umber 

 would have been nearer the truth !) but before we 

 could plunge he yelled, " See the wood-ducks ! " 



