Tragic Fishing Moments 



the monster. Along about sunset I was there again. 

 This time he smashed at one of my flies in a fury. 

 I struck back hard. He made a long, strong rush, 

 pulling my tip to the water and tearing himself loose 

 before I recovered from my astonishment. 



On every following week end until the middle of 

 August I fished for that bass. No less than three 

 times had I hooked him and each time he had served 

 me in precisely the same way a single, long, strong 

 rush in which he tore himself loose without so much 

 as hesitating in his career. He had become an obses- 

 sion with me. I thought of him by day and dreamed 

 of him by night. 



I confided in Billie Rhinehart, a great believer in 

 bass flies, especially during the summer months, when 

 the large bass will be found at night among the lily 

 pads along shore, searching or lying in wait for frogs. 

 Now I had located the range of this bass. He never 

 traveled north of the island or south of the lily pads 

 opposite Buzzard's Glory, the entire stretch being fa- 

 mous fishing grounds. For about a fortnight he had 

 taken possession of the lily pads. 



It had been one of those overcast days and the 

 night was black as pitch, but we knew every foot of 

 the water. Bill was casting from the bow of the 

 boat, while I cast from the stern. I heard a crashing 

 among the lily pads, followed by a splash which could 

 only have been made by the bass. "Ah-h-h," groaned 



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