Where Are My Shoes ? 



fourteen-pound large-mouth bass on twelve-pound line 

 and the three-ounce remains of a well-beloved Heddon 

 rod, many times broken, spliced, and rewound. The 

 big fellow was tenderly brought ashore amid scandal- 

 ized whisperings of the moss-hung cypresses as to the 

 antics of a certain lumbering fisherman trying to do 

 the can-can on the center line of a cranky skiff, and 

 promptly entered in Field and Stream's 1917 contest. 

 In the spring of 1918 the awards were announced, and 

 at once I wrote asking why a fish of lesser weight had 

 been given a prize and why mine did not appear. The 

 answer came that Mr. Savage had gone to the war, 

 and my entry had been lost ! That I went to war my- 

 self shortly after made me realize that thing couldn't 

 be helped, but the disappointment was none the less 

 keen. There is a big 'un in that same lake right now 

 with a reputation for smashing tackle with preter- 

 natural cunning, among his tactics being a hundred- 

 yard run for the goal, -and for three years I haven't 

 been able to get within one thousand five hundred miles 

 of him! Please pray with me that a 'gator doesn't 

 get him! 



The third and last was a little thing, but so damnably 

 galling that to this day it is a standing joke between 

 us. My pardner and I went into executive session on 

 the state of the water, and decided that the recent con- 

 tinuous rains had made the lakes impossible. Deter- 

 mined not to get farther behind in our fishing, we 



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