Tragic Fishing Moments 



was still young. It is true my hopes hung by a slen- 

 der thread, but it was oiled sea-grass and my faith 

 was that of all old-timers. With such a line they 

 would have gone forth cheerfully to battle with a 

 whale. 



I have written elsewhere of the strength, tenacity 

 and resourcefulness of a channel cat. This one was 

 too busy ploughing the sandy bottom of the river or 

 doubling and diving out in the deep water for me to 

 learn whether he was just an ordinary rampageous 

 cat or one of those dynamic veterans that I had seen 

 tow a two-gallon jug at torpedo-boat speed. But at 

 last I saw him. I had worked him around the inner 

 side of the point and as he swung close in I could 

 take his full measure. There is a term in the sports- 

 man's lexicon called buck ague. If I did not con- 

 tract a fully developed case of it just then I certainly 

 had violent premonitory symptoms. But I held on 

 to the rod and the sea-grass line held on to the fish. 



Again and again he rushed off to deep water and 

 as often I succeeded in bringing him in. I could see 

 him plainly in these closer rushes and while doubt- 

 less he has grown some in my memory since that 

 eventful morning, he seemed to be just about as big 

 as I was, and I realized, then and there, that there 

 was either the making of an angler or a champion 

 channel cat out on the end of that lonesome ledge. 

 I have never seen a big channel cat that knew when 



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