The Tables Turned 



opened his eyes sleepily and then closed them again. 

 In the next attempt I succeeded in inserting my hook 

 in his mouth, where I thought it would hold and not 

 hurt too much. My pal again opened his eyes a second 

 afte'r I closed mine. Through slitted lids I saw him 

 close them again, without any premonition of disaster. 

 With trembling hands I cut the stringer, and stood 

 up in the boat. With hardly a wriggle the bass slowly 

 sank. 



My pal awoke. "What the devil's the matter?" 



" I've got a bite," I exclaimed, " probably a little 

 pumpkin-seed." 



" Give him line," roared my friend, as the bass 

 started at least one-hundred miles per hour under the 

 boat. After ten seconds it was a toss-up whether I 

 was playing the bass or the bass me. 



Dimly, like a man who has underestimated the speed 

 and distance of a speeding train, and crossed in front 

 of it, I realized with a frozen brain that I'd make a 

 mistake. So did my pal but not the exact nature of 

 it. He grabbed my pole. For a second I resisted. 

 That second probably saved my life. It at least gave 

 me a thread of hope later to build on and argue vindi- 

 cation. It also gave the bass a chance to discover the 

 anchor rope. The next recollection is of my pal and 

 myself hanging onto a rod with just three feet of line 

 minus hook. 



For a minute the air vibrated with language that 

 145 



