HIGH HOOK AT AVALON 
unbridled. Possibilities hummed in the air; 
the pot was boiling afresh! Stealthily, the 
surface-ripping strand of line moved off, 
the great reel muttered restlessly. What 
sinewy monster might be tampering at the 
lure, recording electric throbs along the 
“‘wire?”? Who could say? A grand lottery 
is the sea! 
Caution personified, Ted nursed the bite 
to the crucial moment. His companions 
held their breath, the ‘‘hail’? seemed un- 
usually determined and _ hot. 
Back, back swung the trusty rod. 
““We-e-e-re o-o-f-f-f” caracoled the click, 
in abandon of battle. 
“See, there, yonder—catch that? See 
him break water? A beauty, old boy, look 
sharp!” exclaimed Lyte. 
Look sharp; aye, and well he might. 
Hard and stiff as the string of a guitar, 
every fibre in the line drafted taut and 
rigid. Could he hold the big fellow? 
Firm, unruffled pressure upon the leather 
brake cut down the speed relentlessly, 
inevitably as Fate. Even, steady pumping 
retarded the impetuous dashes. Keen 
swimmers at a quick sprint, these white 
bass! With a power of self-propulsion 
little short of marvelous, it is maintainable 
only for short, sharp spurts. Deficient in 
endurance, the bass well redeems himself 
by the lightning lunges. 
Twenty fiercely fought minutes reduced 
the yards of line out to about ten. “Cap” 
prepared to administer the coup de grace 
with a big gaff, and Ted, a bit winded but 
still game, led the Jim-dandy to the rail. 
No work of the old masters e’er made a 
finer picture than that exquisitely tinted 
form. Lying astretch upon the crystal 
water, a five-foot symphony of pink and 
silver framed in translucent emerald. 
What a prize! Those forty-six pounds of 
iron muscle, tense sinew and resourceful 
brain were not to be bartered for ‘‘the gold 
of Ophir or the jewels of Ind.” 
Evening now drew on apace and one by 
235 
one the happy parties of tourists and towns- 
folk turned their craft beachward. The 
sport showed no sign of abeyance, but after 
Lyte had skilfully concluded a snappy 
bout with an eighteen-pounder, ‘‘ Cap, ’’ too, 
swung the prow toward the landing pier. 
Although just ‘‘quittin’ time,” two hours 
of daylight remained in these heaven- 
favored climes and the photographer was 
quickly summoned to perpetuate the 
memory and appearance of all, fish particu- 
larly, upon that day of days. 
A careful canvass of the returns showed 
““Cap’s”” men to be “high hook,” . the 
fruits of the two rods numbering twenty-two 
fish which averaged 25 pounds each. 
So the proverbial goose hung high and the 
question of “whether school kept or not” 
was met with callous indifference. 
The boys assured themselves that no 
“taint of pork”’ could be attributed to the 
performance, as but an infinitesimal fraction 
of the white bass then in the bay had fallen 
to their rods. Moreover, the ‘‘ Metropole”’ 
guests relished the savory dishes of steaming 
bass with such avidity that nothing but the 
bones remained. 
Altogether, it was a most glorious after- 
noon, in which ‘‘Fortissimo” had vied with 
“Presto” to set the pace. 
* * * 
And even now, many years later, good 
old ‘‘Cap” still spins the yarn, as he glides 
by the rugged, storm-hewn cliffs, to his 
tenderfoot passengers. 
“Right where you’re a-settin’,’”’ he tells 
his spellbound auditors. ‘‘ Them boys could 
-handle a rod, sure. Gosh they had to, 
’twas no parlor game.” Meditatively, he 
draws a puff. Removing the brown-burnt 
pipe, he filters out the blue smoke with 
dreamy, reminiscent eyes. 
““Yes, sirs, that was sport!” 

AutTHoR’s Note—Although fish stories have fallen into 
disrepute among truth-loving folk, the writer vouches for 
every detail of the foregoing narrative, remarkable as it un- 
doubtedly is, having been an eyewitness to the proceedings. 

