THE ANGLER'S GUIDE 87 



an' thet boy could ketch a hundred while yer foolin, 

 with them little poles. There he be he's took yer bait, 

 sir! Hook him! Thet's it, now pull him in." 



Sure enough, brother Wilstach has hooked a fine, big 

 bluefish, and is holding him as best he can. The game 

 is strong, and the rod is waving up and down, out and in. 

 We all make room for the play, some taking in their lines, 

 some drawing their baits out of the way, and Griggs and I 

 who are in a tangle with the taut line the big fish is 

 fighting on, doing our best to get clear in any manner 

 possible. 



I dodge under Wilstach's rod and Griggs steps over it 

 and Wilstach is now free of all obstruction. 



He is using a steel rod of eight ounces, a rather small 

 multiplying reel, a light Cuttyhunk linen line, and a single 

 leader. 



The rod bends as if it were a tiny lancewood trout rod, 

 and the angler is having a strenuous time in his efforts in 

 reeling in. 



The fish must be well hooked; otherwise, our friend 

 will lose his game, as he frequently allows a slack line 

 a fatal error in most instances where a large fish is being 

 handled. 



Now his reel, not correctly adjusted when applied at 

 the start, slips from the reel seat and drops on the deck, 

 and away goes the bluefish like a pigeon freed from the 

 trap, taking away yards and yards of the uncontrolled line, 

 as the reel spins around like a top at the Captain's feet. 



Wilstach's thumb is cut in the mishap, and is bleeding 

 freely, but he waves us away with his head when we at- 

 tempt to aid him, and actually threatens the excited 

 captain with his fist. 



We are all crying advice of some sort, the Captain is 

 madly dancing again, and the chum boy is fairly splitting 

 his face with laughter. 



''I never seed such a fuss over an ol' biuefish," says the 

 boy to me as I lean down for a fresh bit ot bait; "I'd a 

 yanked him in in a few jerks." 



Wilstach has the reel in place again, and is wildly taking 

 in about fifty yards of slack line, his facial expression 

 clearly showing the extraordinary anxiety with which 

 he awaits the feeling of the tackle when the slack line is 

 all in and the environment of the game is decided. 



"Put yer lines over quick, genelmen," cries Captain 

 Brant; "don' bother bout our frien's fish thet be gone 

 to Cape Cod by this time darn you boy, keep thet slop 

 spoon agoin' !" 



But the bluefish proves to be well hooked, and when 

 the line is taut again, poor Wilstach fights his battle all 

 over once more, fiercer than at first, the game fish now 

 darting swiftly in one direction, now in another, and 

 being in the air half the time, shaking himself every inch 

 like a small-mouth fresh water black bass when it leaps 

 clear of the water after being hooked. 



