150 DAYS STOLEN FOR SPORT 



did the catch of the destructive, unloved dogfish 

 give satisfaction, unless it was to the sailors while 

 they were dealing out to them sudden death from 

 a short-handled, weighty instrument. 



The day for bream came to us at a most oppor- 

 tune time as two of the ladies had come with us 

 and we had a store of bait a dozen mackerel 

 caught at daybreak and a basket of mussels 

 brought from the Helford River. 



The Shag was moored in deep water between 

 two rocks that raised their weed- covered heads 

 to within a few feet of the surface. The captain 

 with great care gave a preliminary browsing, throw- 

 ing in chopped crab on either side which sank 

 straight down as far as we could see, in this 

 sheltered spot. 



Close by, the masts of the Mohegan showed 

 where she had sunk after striking these rocks, 

 while a mile shoreward, the huge liner Paris, firmly 

 fixed upon the rocks, looked as though she was 

 taking her course down Channel quite near the 

 shore. 



In a few lines I will tell you of the tackle re- 

 quired for bottom fishing in these waters, or rather 

 the tackle that I use. A two-joint stiff rod, six 

 feet six inches in length, a large wooden winch, a 

 plaited dark silk line filled with mutton fat and a 

 paternoster that has three brass beams, eighteen 

 inches apart, with twisted gut hooks on them, the 

 last bar to be twelve inches from the lead, which 

 should be of sufficient weight to withstand the tide. 



This was put together and the hooks baited 

 and lowered until the ground was felt, and then 

 lifted a foot to keep clear of weeds, when it was 



