By Hook? No, Crook 



Bill. The first rush had once more done the business, 

 and the swashbuckler was still at liberty. 



The next night as we came along, Bill took the 

 oars insisting that I try for him. A floater of my 

 own design had been selected for the cast regula- 

 tion cork body, luminous paint, white wings and red 

 hackle feathers for tail, after the fashion of a Roost- 

 er's Regret. 



We heard his familiar crashing among the lily pads 

 and allowed plenty of time to pass before we judged 

 his ogreship ready for another frog. There being 

 starlight enough to outline the nearer lily pads, I began 

 searching the pockets between them with the floater. 



The smash came quickly enough and, my blood be- 

 ing up, I struck solidly from the line hand as well as 

 using the full power of the rod against him. The 

 monster heaved his bulk out of the water defiantly, 

 then made his rush in a straight line toward the boat 

 which obstructed the path to open water. As he 

 reached the deeper water near the boat there was a 

 strong downward pull. I felt the line straining along 

 the keel and reduced my tension. The line, which 

 was vibrating like a fiddle string, began slipping to- 

 ward the bow. An ill-omened rasping was telegraphed 

 along the line and in the same instant no more was 

 taken from the reel. I thought the bass had escaped 

 me again, then felt the rasping repeated. 



At once the truth flashed upon me. The line was 

 119 



