THE OREGON SPORTSMAN 119 



A broad grin wrinkled his weathered face. 



"That's just the p'int. Y' won't catch nothin' but sea weed 

 when she's runnin' like this. You're a-wasting your time. Wait 

 for the ebb." 



"When's the ebb?" I asked with some misgivings. 



He pulled out a little, much-thumbed table, and ran his finger 

 down a column of figures. 



"Seventeen minutes after five." 



I looked at Jim. We had hurried that three miles through 

 the woods because we wanted a full day on the bay, and we had 

 promised them at the cottage we would be back for dinner at six 

 o'clock sharp. It was then eight in the morning. 



"And say," ejaculated a boy who had joined the old man, 

 "better take off that there copper riggin'. These fish wants this 

 kind of a hook. Won't take nothin' else," and he displayed a 

 big red and silver combination resembling more a choice article 

 in women's hat adornment than any fish hook I had ever seen. 



We were crestfallen. Our kit boasted no such marvelous 

 creation. This was our first day on the bay. It bid fair to be a 

 dismal failure. Rather mechanically Jim began to take down his 

 rod. A little bunch of sea weed drifted by. I noticed for the 

 first time that there were many similar patches floating in on 

 the tide. 



The old man had left us, evidently feeling that he had done 

 his full duty. The boy turned and started away. 



"Say, boy," I called, "how much for the hook?" 



He looked at it lovingly. 



"I got five on it yesterday," he volunteered. 



"What '11 you take for it?" 



"And Bob got three Sunday, and the day before that — " 



It was too much. 



"I'll give you fifty cents," I shouted, by way of opening a 

 trade. 



That boy was fully twenty feet from our boat, but he covered 

 the distance in a bound. 



"It's yours." 



With a face struggling to suppress his glee, he pocketed the 

 coin, grinned at us for a moment, and said, rather slowly: 



