Guerre a' Mort! 



seen what I had seen. He slid the anchor silently 

 overboard. 



"Sherry, .hand me my rod, will you? Quick!" 



" Hand it ! Ben, I Fm unconscious I I 

 I'm get your own rod ! " 



I was busy getting that plug out of my pant leg. 

 Ben jumped up his whole two hundred and fifty 

 pounds at once and made a lunge for his rod. The 

 skiff nearly capsized Ben did. The sudden lurch 

 of the boat sent me sprawling backwards over the 

 seat, where I landed right-side-up-with-care, my head 

 firmly lodged down under the stern seat, my feet 

 wildly beating the atmosphere, my rod in one hand, 

 the other hand closely pinned to my knee by a half- 

 dozen hooks, the rest of which had already found 

 a nestling place in my trouser leg, as before stated. 

 Ben finally got to his feet and helped extricate me, 

 screaming with joy profuse the while. Then he had 

 to help me get that plug out. It was accomplished. 

 The bass were still out there! I floundered to my 

 feet and stood up on the seat, the plug dancing wildly 

 at the end of my rod. Ben was searching madly him- 

 self in his tackle-box and mumbling something about 

 snaps and swivels (he had forgotten to tie these very 

 handy accessories on his line). I think some parts 

 of his remarks were strong. 



I got ready for a cast. Something was wrong 

 the darned old plug wouldn't wave any more! Oh, 



190 



