With Gun & Rod in Canada 



" A preposterous idea occurred to me. I had a most 

 compelling temptation to investigate that pond with 

 my fly-rod, and see if peradventure any of those lake- 

 trout fry had developed and were still alive; so one Sunday 

 morning before daylight I took my rod, and in my run- 

 about slipped up to the Park. There was no one about. 

 Hastily assembling my tackle, I dropped a Parmachene 

 Beau into a likely-looking spot under the bank. There 

 was a splash and a shower of spray in the dim grey light 

 of early dawn. The rod was all but jerked out of my 

 hand. For fifteen minutes I fought that fish up and 

 down the pond, and finally succeeded in gaffing him. 

 It was an enormous lake-trout. In the next thirty 

 minutes I caught three more; then, being afraid of 

 intruders, and the circulation becoming stagnant in my 

 pedal extremities, I put the fish in my car, and, in the 

 words of the vulgar and unwashed, ' beat it.' ' 



Fumbling in his pockets, he produced a photograph 

 of four magnificent lake-trout reposing on the running 

 board of an automobile. The jaws of the listeners 

 collectively sagged in amazement. O. P. replaced the 

 photograph and glanced at his watch; then, pleading 

 an engagement, excused himself and left the club-room. 



A few days later, very early in the morning, three 

 battered, bruised, and dishevelled gentlemen, in charge 

 of three equally disarrayed cops, were lined up before a 

 sleepy desk-sergeant. 



" What's the charge, Officer ?" asked the lately 

 somnambulant representative of law and order in New 

 York City. 



A collection of much tangled fishing tackle and broken 

 rods were gingerly tendered by one of the patrolmen 

 as prima facie evidence. 



3* 



