Tragic Fishing Moments 



They seemed to miss the little water lilies among 

 which to trail the naked hand, as per illustration, and 

 I noticed that the forgotten freckles of girlhood had 

 suddenly commenced to hop out in clusters on Friend 

 Wife's erstwhile fair enough nose. Her sister seemed 

 flushed in a polite way and a trifle bored as I heaved 

 anchor in the lea of a small desert isle. 



Up to this time they had not noticed the cane pole, 

 but as I casually dropped that baited hook over the 

 side, instinct seemed to tell them I was about to break 

 my word that I really was going to catch a fish. 

 As a matter of fact I was merely going through that 

 ancient rite of fishermen wetting the line. But 

 what a howl of dismay ! There was no use to explain 

 how groundless were their fears, or how ridiculous it 

 would be to accuse a self-respecting fish of a willing- 

 ness to come within half a mile of such wild screeches, 

 let alone take the bait, for my argument was suddenly 

 cut short when six feet of that old cane pole was 

 violently tugged under water. 



Oh, boy! For the next three-quarters of an hour 

 it was a battle every moment of it tragic. And how 

 those two women took on. I don't know whether it 

 was the wild shrieks that emanated from either end of 

 that small boat, or the fact, as I discovered by glancing 

 at the island, that this unseen monster was slowly but 

 surely tugging us out into the lake, but anyway, some- 

 thing seemed to be impairing my morale. 



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