468 Striped Bass. 



shore, he acts like a wayward child, making for every rock which 

 happens in the way, and as there are many of them, it requires no 

 little care to guide him past the danger. Presently, however, the 

 steady strain tells on him, his struggles grow weaker, his efforts to 

 escape become convulsive and aimless, and we lead him into the 

 undertow, where he rests for a moment until a wave catches him and 

 rolls him up, apparently dead, on the shelving sand. As he lies 

 stranded by the receding water, the hook, which has worked loose in 

 his lip, springs back to our feet. Our little Indian sees the danger 

 and rushes forward to gaff him, with a whoop suggestive of war-paint 

 and feathers; but we push him aside hurriedly — no steel shall mar 

 the round and perfect beauty of the glittering sides — and, rushing 

 down upon him, regardless of the wetting, we thrust a hand into the 

 fish's mouth and thus bear him safely from the returning waves; then 

 we sit down on the rock for a minute, breathless with the exertion, 

 our prize lying gasping at our feet, our nerves still quivering with 

 excitement, but filled with such a glow of exulting pride as we verily 

 believe no one but the successful angler ever experiences, and he 

 only in the first flush of his hard-won victory. 



But there is no time to gloat over our prey — bass must be taken 

 while they are in the humor, and our chummer is already in the field, 

 throwing out large handfuls of the uninviting-looking mixture ; so 

 we adjust a fresh bait and commence casting again, as though noth- 

 ing had happened to disturb our serenity, only once in awhile allow- 

 ing our eyes to wander to the little hillock of sea-weed and moss 

 under which our twenty-five pound beauty lies sheltered from the 

 sun and wind. 



Another strike, another game struggle, and we land a mere min- 

 now of fifteen pounds. And this is all that we catch ; the succeeding 

 two hours fail to bring us any encouragement, so we reel in, and 

 painfully make our way up the cliffs, bearing our prizes with us. 



We are eager for another day at the bass, but a difficulty presents 

 itself; fish are perishable in warm weather, the bass in a less degree 

 than many others, but still perishable, and we have no ice, nor is any 

 to be purchased nearer than Vineyard Haven — which for our pur- 

 pose might as well be in the Arctic regions. But we bethink us that 

 we have friends at the Squibnocket Club, some five or six miles away, 

 on the south-west corner of the island, and in the afternoon we per- 

 suade Mr. Pease to drive us over there. 



