MATEUR PHOTO BY GENE STRATTON PORTER. 



A SUCKER IS NIBBLING. 



was no use trying to lift him. Molly-Cot- 

 ton sprinted back for the landing net, and 

 the Deacon forgot his usual calm, and 

 shouted instructions. My wrists began to 

 ache, and the Deacon yelled for the fiftieth 

 time, 



"Keep your line taut! Don't let him 

 break water! Work him lively. Watch 

 out for that stump! Play him deep!" 



I hung on to the pole, unconsciously 

 working down the river, until I came to a 

 big, half-submerged log, lying along the 

 bank and out into the river. I mounted 

 the log and started down; the fish turned 

 straight across with a grand rush; when 

 he came to the end of the line there was 

 one sudden pull and I went in. I lit in 

 water half to my waist, but I kept erect 

 and hung on to the pole. I heard Molly- 

 Cotton's scream, felt rather than saw the 

 Deacon's rush, and realized dimly that for 

 the first time in my life I had started fish- 

 ing without my fishing clothes. A pair of 

 patent leathers were slowly sinking in 

 Wabash river mud, while from the way in 

 which my dry goods floated I suspected I 

 was ruining a silk petticoat. The Deacon 

 srrabbed me in the back and began to lift. 

 Then for the first time I raised my voice: 



"Let me alone. Take the net and climb 

 out on the roots of that stump and see if 

 you can't land him." The Deacon flew. 

 Hope rose strong in my breast. He could 

 climb out well over the water on the roots, 

 and the net had a long, stout handle, that 



would allow dipping deep to meet the fish. 

 I rounded him up slowly but surely. He 

 was within a foot of the surface of the 

 water when whizz, straight toward me a 

 yard, a leap clear of the water, a double, 

 a jerk, and he was off up the river. 



Firmly anchored as I was in the mud, he 

 almost pulled me over, and the Deacon 

 lifted a white face. "He's every ounce of 

 an 8-pounder!" 



"I've got him yet," I gasped, but I was 

 worse played than the fish, and that hor- 

 rible muddy water was soaking up my 

 garments as if I were dressed in sponge. 



"Try him again," suggested the Dea- 

 con, and once more I worked him for the 

 stump. The Deacon leaned over and 

 watched breathlessly. Molly-Cotton's eyes 

 blazed with excitement, and a cardinal gros- 

 beak, swinging on a tulip on the opposite 

 bank, whistled an ear-piercing "Wet year, 

 wet year," or possibly he made it "Wet 

 here" in deference to my soaking condi- 

 tion. I was not capable just then of mak- 

 ing nice distinctions, and he may have 

 been having fun with me. My fish re- 

 peated his first game so skilfully that as 

 he rose and doubled for his jump the line 

 snapped back and he went free. 



The Deacon and Molly-Cotton pried me 

 out. They washed my shoes and rinsed 

 my clothes. I retired behind a thorn bush 

 and draped the classic lines of my figure 

 in linen carriage robes while my skirts 

 were spread to dry. 



267 



