Tragic Fishing Moments 



The " late unpleasantness " kept me exceedingly 

 busy over two fishing seasons, though once in a while, 

 probably by contrast, memories of the bass I had 

 grown to consider " my " bass would haunt me. How- 

 ever, the last days of July, 1919, saw me speeding 

 two thousand miles to the little bungalow under the 

 mountain for what I considered a well-earned rest 

 from commanding and being commanded. 



A nine-foot bamboo, especially built for river work 

 and " my " bass, accompanied me. Correspondence 

 with the local oracle of fishing had assured me that 

 the monster bass was still lord of the pool, though 

 probably bristling like a catfish with hooks and snells 

 from all accounts. The fastest train the government 

 could produce seemed to crawl along to my beloved 

 fishing waters. All that summer I fished for that 

 bass, only temporarily distracted by such duties as 

 eating, sleeping, and catching little two- and three- 

 pounders for the pan. All the baits I could buy, bor- 

 row or dig were tried and all without effect. 



One day, grown desperate at the poor results of 

 man-made lures, I collected a bait-can full of stone 

 catfish or " hammerheads," as they are locally known, 

 among them being a regular monster of a stone catfish 

 fully six inches long. The old saw, " Set a thief to 

 catch a thief" made me wonder if " Set a King (of 

 stone catfish) to catch a King " (of small-mouth bass) 

 wouldn't be effective. 



96 



