Tragic Fishing Moments 



There was a rude sort of a punt tied to a tree above 

 the dam which we appropriated for the work. Mitch- 

 ell, the huskiest one of the lot, was selected as oars- 

 man. I insisted on handling the tackle and catching 

 the cat because I had the best tackle, consisting of a 

 lancewood rod and double-multiplying reel full of 

 heavy linen line. 



Laboriously Mitch rowed the old tub to the upper 

 end of the millpond. I put a large dead chub on the 

 biggest hook we had, and getting into the middle of 

 the stream we started to float down through the fan- 

 cied retreat of the siluroid monsters. I used a cork 

 or float, of course, and naturally all eyes were con- 

 stantly turned to it. I sat in one end of the scow, 

 Mitchell at the oars and Lyman, just a spectator, at 

 the other end, all tense and expectant. 



Three voices gave the cry, " A bite ! " as the cork 

 popped under and out of sight. I struck hard and 

 hooked. I could feel the swaying of a huge body 

 as it surged unyielding to the strain of the rod. Line 

 ran from the reel in spasms in spite of all the pressure 

 I dared apply to the spool. Lyman and I both directed 

 Mitch how to row and he, poor soul, by watching the 

 line, had his work cut out for himself to keep the 

 line from fouling. How he rowed that unweildly craft 

 up and down stream, roundabout and across! We 

 tried to get the quarry close to the boat but were 

 afraid to get it too close. 



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