A NOVEL LURE 



Angler heard not, for a moment he turned 

 his back, lit a cigar, and silently prayed for 

 strength. 



Finally he answered, "TROUT." 



"Oh," murmured the exhausted host, "I 

 never saw one before." 



"It's too hot to fish longer; let's go back 

 and try the ocean," coughed rather than 

 spoke the Angler, for the cigar smoke choked 

 and nearly made him weep. 



"All right," Ned agreed. He looked hot 

 and tired but intensely relieved. 



When in church or during a funeral service, 

 or a companion breaks every tradition of 

 piscatorial law and a person tries to stifle a 

 powerful laugh, because it is not good man- 

 ners to show others you happen to be amused, 

 then the suffering that the Humble Angler 

 underwent can be more fully understood. 



Two things bothered him and never were 

 explained. Why, rubber boots were worn 

 where there was not water enough to have 

 filled them, and what became of the six 

 brown hackles? 



A task remained. Ned must be taught to 

 use flies properly. Fortune smiled this time. 

 A brackish river flowed lazily, quite near the 

 shack. Its waters abounded with white 



47 



