AN EVENING IN CAMP. 
Fe. I. SHIERMAN. 
We were camping on the headwaters oi 
Pine creek, among the Alleghany moun- 
tains. 
The evening was cooi, our camp-fire 
sending its tongues of flame far up among 
the hemlock boughs, its ruddy glow fall- 
ing on a circle of faces bronzed by expo- 
sure to the weather. 
There were 10 of us around the camp- 
fire, and Judge Dean proposed that the 
evening be spent in relating personal rem- 
iniscences, each man im turn telling a fish- 
ing story. 
Instantly Ned Howard was on his feet. 
“Tf it’s to be an evening of fish stories,’ 
he said, “by the sacred shade of Izaak 
Walton, let us bar out the old-fashioned 
‘fish story, which, like the laws of the 
Medes and Persians, and the country cir- 
cus, schaneeth, not Let us have some: 
thing different. We have all heard over 
and over again the old, old story: The 
deep, still pool, the sunset glow, the trout 
breaking the surface, the long cast, the 
sudden flash of light, the strike, the rush, 
the whirl, the whiz, the buzz of the reel. 
the wild flights, and final landing of a 
trout—weight, 4% pound. All this we have 
lied about time and again, and I call upon 
Judge Dean, as the proposer of the even- 
ing’s entertainment, to give us something 
new. : 
THE JUDGE’S STORY. 
I was spending the summer on the 
Rangely lakes, where, as you all know, 
the trout grow very large. I was pre- 
pared for big fish, and long runs, and was 
carrying 150 yards on my reel. 
Till the 15th of June the weather was 
cool, and the sport tame; but the evening 
of the 15th was ideal. Clouds covered the 
sky, ripples broke the st~face of the lake. 
The air was warm and balmy, promising 
rain. The conditions seemed to endow 
everything finny with an appetite. 
Iwas busine waceCoachman a2)Brown 
hackle and a Professor, and all 3 flies 
were taking fish. And such fish! Not lit- 
tle 10-inchers, but 2, 3, 5-pound fellows. 
and occasionally one larger. 
Five times that evening I took pairs, 
and once triplets. Think of it! Three 
fish, weighing 3, 4 and 6 pounds, respect- 
ively, combining to make your reel sing. 
What a strain that was on the rig—and my 
nerves. 
_ Darkness settled down over us, whic 
clouds rendered intense. I could no 
longer see line or flies, yet I could hear 
the splashing of large fish out in the dark- 
ness. 

‘catching the small boys. 
When night set in the trout refused my 
flies, yet I knew they were still feeding. 
“John,” I said, “we have only been 
Judging from 
the splashing we hear, the old ones must 
be out now. I’m going to try them with 
a white fly.” 
I removed the tail-fly and replaced it 
with a white miller, bass size. I length- 
ened my line and cast over the bow. Be- 
fore the flies had time to reach the water 
there came a tremendous tug. The reel 
began to whiz—z—. Yards and yards of 
line were run out before I could collect 
my thoughts. I attempted to check the 
run. The strain was tremendous. It for- 
tunately lasted but an instant, then re- 
laxed began: takimer am lime. Betore: I 
had to yards reeled, again came that fierce 
tug; again the reel whirled and 25 yards 
ran out. I advanced the butt—again came 
that strain—again relaxed. I gathered in 
line fast. Suddenly the rush came again 
—this time from the left of the boat—and_ 
yards of line were again lost. 
Hioltwamvletsaidetw el never Mooked a 
trotteelike = thiss .one, Elleis «gone ‘clear 
around the boat. I think we’ve got the 
erandfather of all Rangely lake trout.” 
“We haven't got him yet,’ answered 
John, “and it’s my opinion we never will. 
Look out for him or he’ll part your line.” 
There was an instant of slack, and I had 
just begun taking in line when—away he 
went again. I put all the pressure I dared 
upon him, but yard after yard left the reel. 
Slowly but surely my line was going. 
There! The last foot was off. There was 
but one thing left. I advanced the butt. 
Never shall I forget that moment, when 
lance-wood and_ silk contended with 
Rangely lake muscle. The tip rattled 
against the fingers that held the rod, and 
the silk responded like the tense string of 
a violin. 
It may have been only seconds, but it 
seemed many, many minutes that strain 
continued. Could ordinary silk and wood 
stand such pressure? Zip—zip—zip! | 
could hear the line cutting on the rings. 
I had given up hope, when suddenly the 
strain ceased. The rod straightened. For 
an instant I thought the line had parted: 
then, far out in the darkness—‘‘splash. 
It was the first break on the water. 
I gathered in my line. I drew it taut. 
The weight was heavy, but there was no 
attempt to run. 
“He has given up the fight, John. Be 
ready with the landing-net.”’ 
Slowly the line was gathered in. The 
175 
