July, 1922 
FOREST AND 
STREAM 
301 
AFTER DRUM WITH THE SURF STICK 
THEY ARE NOT SUCH SWIFT FIGHTERS AS THE CHANNEL 
BASS BUT THEY GIVE THE ANGLER A GOOD TUSSLE 
C HARLIE and I, for a long time, 
wanted to make a trip to Corsons 
Inlet, that mystic realm of chan- 
nel bass, huge black drum, West 
Jersey cottages and Gus Wittcamp, but 
season followed season and it did seem 
as if we would never be able to arrange 
for a few days’ absence from our respec- 
tive jobs at the same time. 
One June morning, however, Fortune 
smiled upon both at once ; Charlie 
’phoned me and we went into executive 
session without any loss of time. Four 
friends of ours had, some weeks before 
this, put up a large wall tent at the Inlet 
and had decided to make a summer’s 
stay ; even as we were considering ways 
and means they were sending us bulle- 
tins of wonderful fishing. 
Their tent, they wrote, was a huge 
affair and would no doubt accommodate 
one more, but, for fear that it might be 
crowded, I decided to take my own little 
balloon silk shelter, while Charlie de- 
cided that he would squeeze in the big 
tent somewhere. The packing up of duf- 
fle, the unpacking to discard this and 
that, the repacking again, and so on for 
two or three nights I pass over; you 
have been there so often. 
We arranged to meet in the station 
at Philadelphia on a Saturday afternoon, 
suffice it to say, and needless to say, we 
did. I thought I had a load, but my 
friend looked as if he had outfitted for 
a year’s outing. Well, when one con- 
siders that, after his pack had been just 
about completed, he had added two pairs 
of surf boots, a mackinaw, a suit of oil- 
skins, a cast net with its lead weights 
and a few other articles hastily tele- 
graphed for by the boys, it is really no 
wonder that he appeared somewhat over- 
loaded. 
We staggered along as best we might, 
bumping against unwary travelers occa- 
sionally, and grinning to ourselves as 
they bounced away like billiard balls 
from a rubber cushion. We were rather 
apprehensive of boarding the boat foi 
Camden, burdened as we were ; really 
the boat did sag amazingly on our side 
but we reached our train safely and pass- 
ing through very unfamiliar places, to 
me at least, we reached, late in the after- 
noon, the end of our wearisome train 
ride. 
We tumbled, very literally, from the 
train into the welcoming arms of Ted, 
Stead and Harold, who, thank Heaven, 
helped us with our duffie up the walk 
from the station to Wittcamp’s place. 
We sat on his cool porch for a breathing 
spell before crossing the sands to the 
big tent that we could see looming up a 
short distance away like a regular circus 
top. We cooled off in no time, in fact, 
though it was June, it was really cold 
and we donned sweaters and mackinaws 
before we resumed our packs. 
By A. F. WESTERVELT 
Twilight was beginning to creep over 
the silent dunes as we trudged across the 
flat toward the tent. Northward glim- 
mered the lights of Atlantic City; to the 
.south a lighthouse flashed its fitful stabs 
of light and overhead in the dark infinity 
of the sky the stars were beginning to 
twinkle; high over us in the quiet, cold 
air the querulous notes of a “kill-dee” 
drifted down. 
As we neared the tent, to our left we 
could see the narrow line of beach gleam- 
j - 
f 
The author with one of the big ones 
ing white in the fast-gathering dark and 
could hear the roar of the curling break- 
ers as they thundered in, piling their 
waters in foam upon the sands. We 
stood for a few minutes, silently enjoying 
it all — the peace of eventide, the immen- 
sity of the overhead — a sense of utter 
freedom seemed to fill us, littleness 
dropped from us — we stood silent and, 
perhaps unconsciously, we worshipped. 
We reached the tent at last, and, with 
many a groan, unslung our packs; they 
had clung to us since early morning. 
Some comfortable headquarters here, a 
board floor of tongue and groove, cots 
arranged all around a big centre table, 
shelves, swinging lamps, hooks for cloth- 
ing — a regular hotel. 
Too late to put my little tent up, but, 
as there was one unoccupied cot, Charlie 
and I matched for it; I won — we rested 
a bit, washed up and the boys decided. 
as this was a most special occasion, that 
they would break rules and all go over 
in a body to Wittcamp’s for supper. 
We were introduced to “Gus,” who evi- 
dently had great faith in his larder, as 
he batted not an eye, but, including the 
whole hungry and disreputable bunch of 
us in the comprehending wave of his arm, 
he led the way to the dining room. 
Doubtless there have been those who 
have been able to adequately describe the 
banquets of past glorious ages; perhaps 
there exists even to-day some golden- 
tongued orator who might, in a manner, 
draw some sort of a word picture of a 
noble feed, but there lives no one, abso- 
lutely not one single person, who could 
in any possible way even approach a 
description of what ensued, so, until we 
emerged from that feast, gorged and 
short of breath, let us draw the curtain. 
'T'HE boys fished the beach that night — 
I did not, it was cold, I had no boots, 
and, as they told me that the beach was 
a wet one at high water, I elected to stay 
in the tent, fuss over my duffle and stretch 
myself for once on a real cot. The next 
day I would get boots and then I’d show 
’em ! I was snoring peacefully when the 
fellows returned ; some one kindly handed 
me a caress on the nose with a boot and 
so I sat up and blinked at the lantern. 
“Nothing much doing,” said Ted, 
“water too swift and full of grass to hold 
long enough — got a few nice weaks 
though; to-morrow we’ll run out after 
the blues or king fish — g’night !” 
I flopped back and in a few minutes 
some one was shaking the daylights out 
of me and yelling, “hurry up and get out 
of here — it’s six o’clock — breakfast!” 
Our dining room was an open sandy space 
and the table was of old boards knocked 
together, our range a stove that the boys 
had bought for twenty-five cents at an 
auction. 
The whole crowd had hustled through 
the meal before I, in my slow way, had 
even made an impression ; they got up 
and left me in front of the remaining 
pancakes. 
“Come on, Westy,” at last said Charlie, 
as he hurried past, “don’t you ever know 
when you are full or can’t it be done — • 
everyone is waiting for you at the boat !” 
I jumped up and, with a lingering look at 
the last flapjack, I grabbed my rod and 
sweater and hastily hoofed it after my 
long-legged, retreating friend. 
The boat proved to be a long, sturdy 
craft of whale boat design, fitted with a 
very powerful motor amidships. The 
fellows were all impatiently waiting and 
Ted was carefully overhauling a net that 
reposed in the stern. 
“Sit and hold on,” said Harold, who 
was, by right of experience, the engineer. 
He gave the primer a snort of gasoline 
{Continued on page 324) 
