GEEAN NIE ECALrISE IN LHE OASIS; 
F. 
The channel cat is one of the gamest 
and most stubborn fighters to be found in 
any of the streams in the Middle West. 
He is long and slender, with a forked 
tail that propels him through the water 
with the velocity of an arrow. He has a 
smooth skin, of a bluish-gray color along 
the back, lighted up by pale spots on the 
sides and fading to a creamy white on the 
belly. 
Taken altogether, the channel cat is a 
handsome fish, and when properly pre- 
pared is of good flavor. 
He spends much of his time in the deep- 
est and darkest pools in the river, but his 
presence there is proof that he has dined 
and there is then little use of angling for 
him. 
The experienced angler waits until the 
channel cat comes out of his subaqueous 
bed-room and makes for the swift water of 
the channel. Then he is hungry. He al- 
ways feeds up stream and, when hungry. 
will take everything in sight. Frogs, min- 
nows, even toads, worms, strips of beef, 
or slender cuts of bacon—all go to make 
up his bill of fare. The tackle consists of 
a 10-ounce Bristol steel rod, a good multi- 
plying reel, 50 yards of braided linen line 
and a dozen good bass hooks. 
Find a place where the river sweeps 
around a bend and the current swishes up 
against the bank. This means deep water 
at the edge, and is the natural dining- 
room of the channel cat. 
Shore-fishing is unsatisfactory here, as 
the line will swing in against the bank. 
Consequently, the expert angler wades in 
from the opposite shore. He casts his 
baited hook across and downstream, and 
the line pays out with the current until 
checked by pressure on the reel. 
The channel cat is a voracious feeder 
when on a foraging expedition, and at 
such times is easily taken by the practiced 
angler. When hooked he will fight with 
all the courage and tenacity of a bull-ter- 
rier; yet he is rarely able to throw the 
hook. 
- This is due to the skin around his 
mouth, which is as tough as rawhide. 
Speaking of the fighting qualities of the 
channel cat reminds me of a trip I once 
made with my friend “Bones.” I can see 
him now. standing waist-deep in the mid- 
dle of the river, fishing toward a ledge of 
rock that juts out into the water from the 
opposite shore. 
269 
D. BLAKE. 
Standing there in the twilight, his 
peaked cap pushed back on his head and a 
long-stemmed pipe in his mouth, he re- 
sembled a giant kingfisher perched on a 
river snag. 
Appearances were of small moment to. 
Bones, however. Fishing was too serious 
a business with him to allow of any 
posing for exhibition. He gota strike. I 
knew it from the dipping of his rod and 
the music of his reel, as yard after yard 
of line ran through the polished guides. 
He did not get alarmed and grab the reel. 
Bones never gets alarmed. Elie 4s a 
stunning angler, is Bones; so he put on 
the drag and let the line run out, showing 
little concern, as though he held a thou- 
sand yards in reserve. Smoke began to 
come from the long-stemmed pipe, not in 
spasmodic whiffs, as indicating nervous 
agitation; but in long-drawn, soul-satisfy- 
ing clouds; fragrant smoke, blue and cool, 
that ascended, in wreaths and spiral rings, 
upon the evening air. Bones was happy. 
I knew that, although he was as motion- 
less as a gar basking in the noonday sun. 
Bones knew from Jong experience the 
killing qualities of the drag, and he men- 
tally fixed the spot, far down the stream, 
to which the fish would go. I judged that, 
because just before the fish turned Bones 
mechanically placed his hand on the reel- 
crank. Then there was a pause—just a 
moment of hesitation—and, with a vicious 
rush that made the line cleave the water as 
a colter cuts the virgin soil, the fish made 
for deep water up stream. Bones recov- 
ered 30 yards of line with a motion like 
the driver of a locomotive running 60 
miles an hour. For 30 minutes the chan- 
nel cat fought in circles, always on the 
bottom of the river, under 10 feet of water. 
Then his circles began to grow smaller, 
The battleground was narrowing toward 
the center. 
Bone. was smoking now like an engine 
with its wheels revolving on a slippery 
track. He had stripped the rod and was. 
giving the catfish a desperate fight. 
Just at the most critical time—at the 
moment when Bones was reaching out the 
gaff to take him by the gills—would have 
been the time for that fish to have escaped, 
so that in future Bones might have 
weighed and measured him in imagina- 
tion. Bones may have had some imita- 
tors, but there was only one Bones, and 
he landed his fish. In fact, Bones waded 
