THE CAPTURE OF A BOSS TROUT. 
DON CAMERON. 
Probably no fish that ever disported it- 
self in the clear, cool headwaters of the 
Susquehanna ever attained greater notor- 
iety or displayed more contempt for man 
and his piscatorial devices than did Squire 
Leggett’s big brown trout. 
This superb specimen ot Salmo _ fario, 
the most vicious and gamy of all the trout 
family, was the sole occupant of the largest 
and best pool in Big creek. This pool was 
an ideal spot for brown trout, loving as 
they do to be well hid in some dark recess 
under a projecting bank, with swift water 
above and a clear pool below. 
Two huge old elms towered high over the 
pool. The water boiling over the big stones 
above washed far under the trees, leaving 
thousands of their string-like roots awash 
and forming a perfect hiding place. The 
rest of the big hole was deep, quiet and 
perfectly clear. 
Strictly speaking, this particular trout 
belonged to no one, but the Squire had first 
claim on him by right of discovery and 
he was spoken of as the “The Squire's big 
trout.” 
It was 3 seasons before this that the 
Squire returned from. a half day’s fishing 
with his rod in pieces and a vivid story of 
a terrific struggle with a monster trout 
which ended in the destruction of the tackle 
and a victory for the fish. He showed the 
remnants of his rod and declared the fish 
would go a good 5 pounds. The listening 
disciples of Isaac only shook their heads 
and remarked that the first man to tell a 
fish story nowadays doesn’t have a ghost 
of a show. Nevertheless no one doubted 
the story, though they caviled at the alleged 
weight. 
In the next few days all the local anglers 
were busy planning a campaign against 
the trout that was certain to prove success- 
ful, and, over their pipes, could almost 
hear the big fish rattling in their baskets. 
During the next week many stealthy trips 
were made to Elm pool at all hours of day 
and night, with the result that another vet- 
eran angler fastened a Coachman in the 
fish’s jaw only to lose him among the roots; 
and Merti saw him basking in the sun 
one day and established his identity as a 
brown trout; probably one of several big 
breeders planted in the creek miles below. 
Thus it became a well established fact that 
Elm pool was the home of one of the big- 
gest and gamiest trout that ever rose to 
a fly. The next season he grew more wily, 
was hooked only a few times and got loose 
immediately as usual, always taking more 
343 
or less tackle with him and sometimes leav- 
ing a badly shattered rod behind. Never- 
theless he was seen many times by anglers 
who wriggled carefully through the 
grass on the high bank far enough to peep 
into the pool. He could easily have been 
shot, or perhaps snared when the water was 
low, but like true sportsmen we did not 
want the fish unless we could capture him 
in a fair fight. 
Apparently with increasing age came loss 
of appetite, or if he had an appetite it was 
satisficd with some unknown matter, as 
nothing in the line of bait seemed to tempt 
him. To us the day when the Squire’s big 
trout would threaten the destruction of 
one of our baskets in his dying struggles 
as seemed far off as the millennium. 
More than one Sunday afternoon I have 
lain sprawled in the shade on the grassy 
bank above the hole and waited patiently 
for a glimpse of the fish. I remember well 
the first time my patience was rewarded. 
The sun had just vanished behind the West- 
ern hills, leaving behind a clear, mellow 
light which penetrated every nook and 
crevice in the bottom of the creek, when, 
with a graceful, easy motion the big trout 
swung out from behind the roots into the 
middle of the pool and lay motionless within 
a foot of the surface. I was too surprised 
to move. Well hid behind a bunch of 
rushes I could only stare and take in every 
detail of his symmetrical body. His big 
jaws were warped with age; the lower one 
protruding. His mottled back had grown 
dark with continual hiding; his brown 
tinged sides were spotted with crimson and 
gold. The bright fins were broad and 
powerful and his thick shoulders spoke of 
great strength. 
A shadow darted 
he was gone and I lay staring at the 
empty pool. As I !ooked, I _ noticed 
that not another trout, big or little, was to 
be seen, although the rest of the creek’ was 
well stocked with them. 
Now this was nothing unusual, for it is 
well known among anglers that there is 
always a boss fish in every pool along a 
trout stream, who always occupies the best 
hiding place and has first choice of whatever 
food may wash into the pool. Frequently, 
if the boss happens to be an unusually large 
fish or an old and grouty one, he drives 
out all the other occupants, knowing well 
that there will be all the more provender 
for him. 
As I sat wondering whether this was 
due to a strange preference for solitude 
across the _ water, 
