
FISH AND FISHING. 
pond. The same guide took me over to our 
old cabin. We again fished and caught 
some good strings. One afternoon I hooked 
an apparently large fellow while bait fish- 
ing in deep water. He came up slowly— 
appeared to be logy and did not run—or 
fight; but he strained my tackle. Just as 
he came to the surface and the guide, after 
a mighty effort landed him safe in the boat, 
I discovered I had taken the same fish, the 
one marked years ago.” 
We observed silence, but the guide put in 
anxiously, 
“Had he grown much?” 
“He had not changed a particle, but the 
whistle had grown into a foghorn.” 
The guide busied himself about our bal- 
sam beds at once, nor did he offer any more 
stories of immense trout. 
“The press is mightier than the law,” 
remarked the attorney dryly. 

HE GOT WHAT WAS COMING TO HIM. 
aan Ee 
I never was what might be termed a suc- 
cessful angler, though from an early age I 
was a lover of the gentle art and could pa- 
tiently wait hours for a nibble. I do not re- 
member to have caught more than 1o fish 
in one day; frequently I caught none at 
all. Once I landed 3 trout in 5 minutes 
and another time I caught a 28-pound pike, 
which I spent hours landing. On the whole, 
I always returned satisfied from a day’s 
fishing. 
Among my chums in those days was 2 
boy who, up to the time I speak of, was 
fond of fishing. However, he thought it 
slow work with rod and line and with the 
help of another chum, of ours invented a 
way to kill fish with dynamite. His father’s 
farm bordered on a lake literally full of 
pike and perch. A quarryman showed him 
how to put the detonator containing the 
fuse into the stick of dynamite and common 
sense taught him how to sink it. He made 
2 experiments which proved successful. 
He was preparing to make a big haul 
and had baited part of the lake to attract 
the fish. Another friend and I were to 
be present to see the sport and help collect 
the fish. I was much disappointed when 
pressing business kept me away. 
My friend had to go on with the slaughter 
alone as our chum did not turn up either. 
About 3 p. m. on a July day he rowed out 
to the part of the lake he had baited. For 
some reason he had to strike nearly a box 
of matches before one would burn suff- 
ciently to light the fuse. At last he got it 
lighted and threw it in the proper place, 
which he had marked with a floating cork. 
It was then time for him to row for his 
life. He grabbed for the oars, but to his 
horror saw one of them floating 10 yards 
433 
from him, it having slipped out while he 
was lighting the fuse. He rowed frantically 
with the other, but instead of getting away 
from danger was right on top when 
the explosion came. He and the boat were 
blown 30 feet upward. When he came to 
himself he was on the keel of the boat, 
which was floating bottom up near the mid- 
die of the lake. He could not move lest 
he tumble off, nor could he swim ashore 
with his clothes and shoes on, being at best 
a poor swimmer. As it was a calm day 
there was no hope of his drifting ashore. 
He cried for help and at last some one heard 
him. It took some time to decide how 
to rescue him, there being no other boat on 
the lake. A boat was sent for, but before it 
arrived my friend had been 3 hours in the 
water, and from fright and exposure was 
well nigh exhausted. 
When our chum who had arrived mean- 
time, saw him safely landed, he collected 
the fish. They were of all sizes, from the 
smallest perch up to a pike 5 pounds in 
weight. As it turned out, it did the fish 
a good turn, for had he taken the 480 fish 
he killed without an accident he and his 2 
chums might have become a trio of fish 
hogs, the like of which the world never 
saw. 
We were scarcely to blame, as we were 
but boys, and did not know we were break- 
ing both the laws of the land and the laws 
of common decency by our act. However, 
it was all for the best, for it left 1s thank- 
ful thereafter for small mercies in the fish- 
ing line. One of the trio has since fished 
in the rivers of California, but not as a 
fish hog. 

A DISAPPOINTMENT. 
Dick Kirkham was coming down the Ma- 
pee, attired in a wading suit which “Old 
Hossfly” Jim Bryant had picked up for him 
in the lumber town of Pelton. About the 
time he reached the pool at the turn of the 
river I yelled for him to hurry and help me 
land the biggest trout in Michigan. I had 
put a red worm down the current into a 
big pool that churned and foamed beneath 
the overhanging branches of a giant elm, 
and got a bite that almost pulled me in over 
my boot tops. When I struck, it was simply 
a question of tackle endurance, but as I was 
equipped with an Alta line and a No. 4 
Pennell on a double gut leader I had no 
fear of the fish breaking away. But just 
beneath the surface of the foamy water a 
forked snag afforded the fish a splendid op- 
portunity to hang me up. He took advan- 
tage of it so thoroughly that the only di- 
rection he could take the line, after he had 
fastened it between the forks, led over to 
a pile of drift and brush, which meant 
freedom for him and confusion to me if he 
succeeded in reaching it. 
