A BOUT WITH A 'LONGE. 



F. H- ZEIGLER. 



" You are my prisoner — for this after- 

 noon." 



The first half of this sentence, delivered 

 in a commanding voice, startled me, be- 

 hind a stack of books on which I had been 

 working faithfully, one sweltering day last 

 summer. The latter half, given in a far 

 different tone, at once assured me; it was 

 my intimate friend, Sam, who was evident- 

 ly intent on taking me on one of his " pis- 

 catorial voyages " — the only way in which 

 he gratified his desire for pleasure. 



As I glanced up, he said: " Come, close 

 up those books! This is an ideal day for 

 'longe and you must join me, for the God 

 of Fate cannot be against us on such a day 

 as this. Come now, I insist on your go- 

 ing!" 



" It is impossible, Sam, for me to even 

 think about so great a pleasure, for I have 

 work that must be finished ere I sleep. 

 Many thanks just the same, for your kind 

 invitation." 



"What!" he fairly thundered back at 

 me, " are you going to make a slave of 

 yourself, altogether? Here you have been 

 working for the last 3 years, in this dingy 

 office, where the air is not fit to breathe, 

 without so much as a 4th of July off! Come 

 now, the afternoon is nearly half spent, and 

 a few hours on the river will do you a world 

 of good." 



At last I consented to go, and we soon 

 reached the boathouse, where Sam had the 

 line and spoon already prepared, with a 

 half-dozen live frogs for bait. At the 

 word, Sam dropped in the line. Then, with 

 his big briar pipe puffing clouds of smoke, 

 he made a picture of contentment and great 

 expectations. I took up the oars, little 

 thinking this was destined to be the hard- 

 est pull of my life. 



We rowed over the grounds a dozen 

 times. My arms were beginning to have 

 " that tired feeling," when Sam offered to 

 relieve me; but thinking we would shortly 

 give it up for a bad job, I decided to stick 

 to my post. 



I had about concluded my gloomy 



prophecy of the trip would come true, for 

 nary a strike had we felt, and the sun was 

 about to sink below the horizon as we were 

 homeward bound. Sam had begun to reel 

 in the 100 yards of line, when, suddenly, 

 the boat stopped as though it had run 

 against a stone. A moment later he let out 

 a very emphatic " Oh! " 



Thinking the hook had caught a snag, 

 I was about to stop rowing when Sam 

 cried out, " Don't stop! We've hooked a 

 monster! " 



Instantly I forgot my tired arms and 

 blistered hands. For a few moments, pull 

 as I might, I could not gain an inch. It 

 was indeed the starting of a battle royal. 

 Time and again did the fish leap out of the 

 water and try to free himself of the mur- 

 derous barbs which were firmly imbedded 

 in his powerful mouth. At times he would 

 ease up in his struggles, when Sam, with 

 the greatest effort, would draw him a little 

 nearer to the boat. Then the fish would 

 sulk and the battle begin anew. 



Ages seemed to have passed since we 

 hooked him, and he was as far as ever from 

 being our fish. First to the right and then 

 to the left, would he make terrific rushes 

 that we could not stop. He was fighting 

 fast and furious; but after each rush he 

 grew perceptibly weaker. To make sure of 

 landing him, I kept the boat headed for the 

 shore. It was slow work, but eventually 

 we had him alongside, in shallow water, 

 when the gaff and the knife soon laid him 

 out. 



The twilight was fast fading into dark- 

 ness; so, with hurried strokes — our great 

 success had given me renewed strength — 

 we soon reached the boathouse. With . 

 stout clothes-line, we tied our prize to an 

 oar, and with the ends resting on our 

 shoulders marched triumphantly into town. 

 The fish weighed an even 39 pounds. 



Long will I remember that glorious 

 struggle! As my thoughts drift back to 

 that eventful evening. rm T pen moves with 

 double rapidity, as if I were still making up 

 lost time for that afternoon. 



When fair woman is athletic. 

 There is not a soul that knows 



If she does it for its benefit. 



Or to show her fetching clothes. 



349 



