The Tables Turned 



enough to wash dishes or row a boat whatever dis- 

 tance the occasion demanded without murmur. 

 Whether I had one dollar or six, I was always invited 

 to go along; I say " six " because that was the largest 

 amount I ever remember having. My folks were sort 

 df set -against camping, so about the only notice I ever 

 gave them was a postal notifying them that I had 

 arrived safely. Well, a thrill is a thrill, as some might 

 argue. In my life I sort of classify them as low, 

 medium, and the high voltage variation of the same. 

 To get the latter you've got to do more than just cap- 

 ture a whopper out of a place where there aren't any. 



On a hot afternoon in the latter part of a hotter 

 August we sat in our boat, just fishing. We had been 

 angling without results, so were content just to trust 

 pickle luck. Brrrr, without even a preliminary bite, 

 went my friend's reel. With a jump he grabbed his 

 rod and set the hook. Eyes alight with interest, he 

 stood up for the struggle. Out spun the line for per- 

 haps thirty feet. Swish! Out of the water there arose 

 what seemed to me like a thousand pounds of terror- 

 stricken fury, fighting desperately to free himself from 

 the cruel, mysterious enemy that only sank its teeth 

 deeper in his tortured mouth. He hit the water with 

 a splash that was trebly accentuated by the calm of 

 the lake. 



If there are any dried drops of water on this narra- 

 tive, know they are honest tears shed for a tried and 



143 



