i6o 



RECREATION, 



quehanna trailed out after him. The 

 writer made the next exit. Thus three 

 men went on the trail of their tackle. 



They met at the ticket office. "Two 

 tickets to Perryville. Can we catch 

 that jerk water train down to Octoraro 

 Junction on good connections?" 



"Sure/' mumbled the agent, pound- 

 ing the date machine mechanically. 

 "Just about time enough to get break- 

 fast at Perryville and get the first milk 

 train on the Wilmington line." 



The pair wandered out in the great 

 arched depot shed while the uninvited 

 guest behind them transacted some 

 more Perryville transportation busi- 

 ness at the ticket window. It was a 

 trinity of anglers that snored in the 

 Pullman that night and a trinity that 

 got off at Perryville at six o'clock on 

 the following morning. 



We lit into the breakfast table in 

 a body. An angler may disguise his 

 intentions only for a short time. The 

 freemasonry of the art discloses one's 

 innermost thoughts and by the time the 

 hot coffee of the obliging farmer's 

 wife came unto us it became evident 

 that the uninvited guest was welcome 

 to "butt in" and reap all the benefits 

 that might accrue. 



From Perryville to Octoraro Junc- 

 tion is a short trip, half an hour per- 

 haps. We arrived before seven and 

 swung off like old timers returning 

 once again to the scenes of our youth. 



A short, gray, rather pleasant look- 

 ing old fellow was leaning against the 

 little red depot in a field of milk cans. 

 The greeting he offered the best bil- 

 liard player in our party was cordial 

 indeed. 



"The river's clear all right, all 

 right," he shouted, reaching for the 

 proffered hand, and then drawing his 

 former patron in a closer caucus, sort 

 of whispered : "They're takin' the bait 

 to beat the band." 



Through the shrubbery of wild 

 blackberry vines and oaks I saw 

 gleams of the river, swirling here and 

 there against a wooded background 



stretching away toward the Chesapeake 

 bay. Visions - of a battle royal leapt 

 into every vista within the range of my 

 eyesight. 



"Shake hands with Mr. Irwin." A 

 friendly slap on the back awakened 

 me. I turned to feel the outstretched 

 palm of the farmer. The florid man 

 broke into hilarious laughter at the 

 suggestion that we walk over to Ir- 

 win's house. "Walk? What's the 

 matter with riding ? Great guns, men, 

 I didn't come down here to walk." 



We left- him fuming among the milk 

 cans and broke through the wild hedge 

 on the heels of Irwin. Presently the 

 underbrush cleared and we saw across 

 the dew spangled field that lay like a 

 blanket of green flannel before us, a 

 snug cottage tucked away in the trees 

 along the river bank. 



The billiard player, no longer able to 

 restrain himself, made a rush for it and 

 went loping across the field like a 

 maverick hunting a salt lick. I fol- 

 lowed a close second for the money 

 and place. Irwin, with some of the in- 

 stincts of the Maryland Boniface, lin- 

 gered until the florid one hove in view. 

 A billow of profanity came spilling 

 across the landscape and splashed up 

 on the porch where the former visitor 

 and the writer were busy with rods 

 and tackle. 



"Slap on a spinner," chirped the 

 cheerful one, "any old spinner will do. 

 A kidney spoon, a double or single bass 

 twirler; even a squid on a swivel. I 

 use a pickerel bait as a rule. Throw 

 the three line hook out. Isn't worth 

 a whoop. Rig a braided or four strand 

 loop leadered hook about six inches 

 from the spoon. See, like that." He 

 made a deft movement and held up the 

 killing center of his effort. "Now get 

 out a six foot double leader and link it 

 firmly to the upper loop of the spoon 

 rig. So. No sinkers ; the weight of 

 the spoon and swivel will take her 

 down. Besides some of the eddies 

 snake the layout under water like a 

 steel head hitting a brown hackle. 

 There you have it. Death and disaster 



