STRIPED BASS IN THE SUSQUEHANNA 



163 



involuntary movement with his hand. 

 It's so deep here and so hard to pull 

 that the spoon don't do stunts about 

 half the time." 



I "jigged her a bit" and then some- 

 thing struck the full length of my pole. 

 The line twanged like a banjo string. 

 The tip of the rod flipped into the 

 stream and out again with a hiss. 



'"You're on this time. Give him 

 more line." The boatman in his zeal 

 began to swear in a most immoderate 

 manner; introducing a brand of pro- 

 fanity that would have put my florid 

 friend to shame. But I forgave him 

 everything. "Keep it tight. I'll back 

 down stream, and you can nurse him. 

 Holy herring, but it's a walrus. You'll 

 skin the bunch to-day." 



I glanced at my reel and observed 

 to my horror that there wasn't twenty 

 feet of line left on the reel. "Follow 

 him down," I exclaimed, in the hope 

 that I could get some fighting tackle 

 on the spool. If he decided to rush 

 me I was gone. Fortune was with me, 

 however, and I coaxed him in slowly 

 recovering a hundred feet of line. 

 Then he took it with a plunge and 

 went straight for the bottom, where 

 he did a five minute sulk. I was get- 

 ting discouraged. 



"Keep the string on him," advised 

 the boatman. "He'll be kicking hard 

 in a minute." As if in response to the 

 prophesy the lord of the depths shook 

 his nose and started in to break rec- 

 ords again. I felt the line rising as the 

 direction of the pull swept upward and 

 to the left. Soon it was straight away 

 from the tip of my steel rod. Then, 

 about 100 feet away a gleam of striped 

 silver rose from the pool and a shim- 

 mering spray of crystal clouded the 

 center of a commotion that will ever 

 live in mine eye. In another second 

 he arched his thick black spine and 

 plunged into the stream like a mad- 

 dened porpoise, shaking his head in a 

 frenzy born of despair. 



"He's hooked hard. Fight him to 

 a finish" How well that boatman 



knew. Another rush to the surface, 

 but this time the water only boiled. I 

 took him in a bit that trip and once 

 again caught a glimpse of his wide 

 spread dorsal fin. Another five min- 

 utes went by and the borrowed reel 

 continued to gather its victim. Finally 

 I got him along side and we slid the 

 net under him silently. But he side- 

 stepped it and rushed again. Not so 

 far that trip and it was easier to get 

 him back. Another play with the net 

 and the boatman lifted him clear of 

 the tide into the bottom of the craft. 

 I relaxed a weary arm and planted both 

 feet on his body while he thrashed 

 himself into exhaustion. 



Look at the index finger on the 

 scales. Eighteen and one-half pounds. 

 The Susquehanna had treated me with 

 Southern hospitality. 



The sun had reached high in the 

 heavens and the hunger that is born in 

 all men began to declare itself. Re- 

 member we missed breakfast. 



"Lunch ?" I looked at my companion 

 inquisitively. 



"Sure," was his laconic response, 

 and we pulled back to Irwin's ; pulled 

 back with a heart full of pride and a 

 mouth full of boastings. 



Half an hour later the billiard play- 

 er returned with his fish. Two went 

 into the eight pound column and one 

 hung limp at seven and a half. But 

 what's the use of describing small fry. 

 The big victory was mine. 



Yes, we fished some more after lunch. 

 And the florid man went along. He 

 got the fever, too, bringing five good 

 ones back about sunset. After dinner 

 and dark we took the jerk water train 

 back to Perryville, caught a night train 

 and returned to New York. 



We three gather once in a while at 

 the Nassau street billiard room and get 

 reports from the . Susquehanna de- 

 votees. On these occasions the florid 

 man usually has something to say ; 

 something that would lead a stranger 

 to believe that Isaac Walton was his 

 common ancestor. 



