Guerre a' Mort! 



my spare time getting my outfit ready. You should 

 have seen that outfit. My tackle-box was about as 

 big as a steamer trunk and jammed full of about 

 everything I had seen in that sporting goods store in 

 Detroit. The proprietor had sized me up correctly. 

 (I know him well now!) He simply took me into 

 his confidence and told me about tackle that very 

 few fishermen even knew anything about. He con- 

 fided that he liked me personally, that he was going 

 to do something he seldom, if ever, did pick out 

 my entire outfit himself. Gosh ! think of it me not 

 even claiming to know anything about the piscatorial 

 art, yet getting this personal attention! 



Now for " the tragic moment " ! We anchored in 

 a beautiful bay that seventh night out. We were 

 " amongst the fish," Ben said. Next morning we were 

 ready to go fishin*. Ben helped me carry my tackle- 

 box up on deck and dump it into the dink. We rowed 

 about between islands, around boulders, through reeds. 

 Not a bass was to be seen. Ben took my rod, for I 

 had it all rigged up, of course. I rowed. Ben cast 

 everywhere. I watched him closely, for I had never 

 tried the casting game. It looked very simple. Finally 

 Ben rigged up a trolling line and handed it to me. 

 He rowed a spell; I trolled. We worked for hours. 

 No bass. 



"Doggone it all, Sherry! Say, that d d ar- 

 senal of yours there has scared 'em all away, that's 



188 



