Fisbing through the Ice 383 



his minnow a few inches, the apparition glided for- 

 ward, and I drove the spear downward with all the 

 force and speed my arm could impart. Through 

 the wooden handle I felt the crush and grind of 

 steel through bones, and knew 'twas well. The 

 shaft swept round in response to a failing, swirling 

 rush, and we promptly lifted from the hole a dead 

 fish, for the spear had cut the spine just at the 

 junction with the head. The fish was by no means 

 as heavy as many I have seen, but it was large 

 enough for our ambition, and, best of all, we had it 

 safe. 



That was spearing as it is apt to average upon 

 those lucky days when everything works just right, 

 but not seldom there are trifling mishaps and once 

 in a long while a truly perilous experience. 



One sunny morning two of us snapped skates to 

 boots and started for the bay, where fifty or more 

 Frenchmen made a business of winter spearing. 

 We anticipated great results. But we had a long 

 distance to skate, and did not reach our shanty 

 before noon. 



The big frog-eater in charge greeted us warmly 

 and said: " Oui, dis grate day; but you should bin 

 here before. Mebbe vataire milky 'fore long." 



We didn't care a continental whether the water 

 might get " milky," and in brief time the Frenchman 

 left us alone. When we first shut ourselves in our 

 little cabin, everything appeared black as tar, but 

 gradually our eyes grew accustomed to the strange 

 half-light from ice and water. My comrade first took 

 the spear, while I worked the decoy-minnow. A 

 board formed a seat, and we sat side by side, he 



