464 
FOREST AND STREAM 
August, 1920 
BEACH FISHERMEN IN THE MAKING 
(continued from page 427) 
“Some” price, but a Greener 
gun is a gilt edged investment 
even at this figure. It repre- 
sents the highest development 
of the Sporting Firearm perfect- 
ly balanced, beautifully decor- 
ated — double barreled Ham- 
merless Ejector — -Single Trigger, 
barrels bored to Greener stand- 
ard, the highest pattern and 
most regular grouping obtain- 
able. 
Every detail is keenly criticized 
by experts in gun construction 
— the result is a symphony in 
outline — an object d’art, the 
PERFECT GUN— a lifetime's 
delight to the Sportsman and 
an heirloom of increasing worth 
to coming generations. 
It is fitted in a real English 
.Leather case lined] with rich 
piled Velvet, complete with 
heavily plated and ebony im- 
plements, delivered duty paid. 
Of course we make guns of 
other grades, and will send cat- 
alogue No. 43 and Fine Gun 
booklet on request. 
W. W. GREENER 
Gun and Riflemaker 
St. Mary’s Row 
BIRMINGHAM, ENGLAND 
29 Pallmall - LONDON, S. W. 
CANOES 
ROWBOATS 
OUTBOARD MOTORS 
BOATS FOR OUTBOARD MOTORS 
MOTOR BOATS, 16 to 24 ft. 
long, with or without engine. 
For lakes, rivers, shallow water 
and weeds. 
The saving effected this year is greater 
than ever before. 
CATALOG FREE— ORDER BY MAIL 
THOMPSON BROS. BOAT MFG. CO. 
1521 Ellis Ave., PESHTIGO, WIS. 
six inch piece of line and to the remain- 
ing arm I fastened a 6-0 hook. “Now, 
boys, bait with squid and up and at ’em,” 
said I. “Let me show you how to get 
out to that hole.” Swis-s-s-h! out whirled 
the sinker and baited hook through the 
air. Out — out — out it sailed, dropping 
right on the edge of the hole. 
The youngsters, one after the other, 
then essayed the trick, rod held high, 
right arm bent up, the hand near the 
shoulder, the thumb pressed down upon 
the line on the reel, the left hand also 
held high, gripping the lower end of the 
butt. 
“Now,” said I, “just as you used to 
cast apples on a stick. Pull down with 
your left hand, at the same moment 
thrust and follow through with the right 
hand, lifting your thumb from the spool 
at the same time and your rod tip will 
describe an arc that should send your 
bait out to just where you want it.” 
“No, Tom, too much to the side; up 
straight over the right shoulder — don’t 
be a “siae-swiper” whatever you do.” 
The boys got the hang of it after a while 
and got out in fine style. “Wow,” said 
Tom, after a few minutes, “I’ve got 
something. 0 — Oh say — guess I’ve struck 
a submarine.” “Don’t horse it in then,” 
said I, “let him run, if it is a weakfish 
ins mouth is tender. Oh! That’s a fine 
rap on the knuckles; keep your fingers 
out of the way of your reel handle when 
he rushes. Now he is tiring, take up 
the line — faster, he’s running toward you 
— now quickly as he comes through the 
big breaker. There! you have him, a 
fine, big, tide-running weakfish. Great, 
now we have our supper assured any- 
way.” 
Several more weakfish were taken on 
that tide, also two or three large fluke 
and I had such a savage strike from 
some huge creature that my gut leader 
was cut through as if by a knife. 
“Humph,” said I, “blue fish, I guess; 
wait. I’ll change the rig.” This time, 
instead of a gut leader I put on a tinned- 
wire one but Mr. Blue did not return and 
soon all biting slowed up. 
All of a sudden I had a gentle strike — 
again a queer pull and I struck back; a 
very funny acting fish, thought I, could 
hardly budge it; must be fast into a 
piece of wreck — no, there he starts out 
again. Again I tried to bring him in. 
Guess I must have been at the pesky 
thing fifteen minutes before I brought 
in, to the merriment of the boys, a big 
horseshoe crab. No wonder he was hard 
to land — I’ll bet the man who invented 
the “tank” took him for a model. He 
manouvered just like one, flop, push, flop, 
push, he went along and every time I’d 
pull he’d dig his pushers and the front 
edge of his shell into the sand and there 
he’d stick. I cut him loose and off he 
trundled into the water. 
“Better quit now, boys,” said I» after 
a while, “it’s getting late and supper 
must be started. Tom, you be woodman, 
get good, dry, hard wood, not too dried 
out and punky though. Ben, take the 
empty bucket and hike up to the station 
for more water. Bill, clean that weak- 
fish. I’m going to plank him on the 
board for our supper.” 
B Y the time Ben had returned, we had 
accomplished quite a bit. A rack, on 
which to hang the water buckets had 
been put up, bedding of dry sea grass 
had been put into the tents and supper 
was ready for the ravenous youngsters. 
How good that planked weakfish did taste 
and right manfully did they dispose of 
tin tremendous feed. 
“No sand in our grub tonight,” said I, 
“no wind, thank goodness! If it does 
get windy we’ll have to build a wind- 
break on the side of the fire towards the 
wind. You see there are lots of troubles 
in sand camping that you don’t find in 
the woods. Now while Bill and I clean 
dishes you boys unroll the blankets and 
fix up for the night; we want to turn in 
early, at least you boys do. I’m going to 
stay up for a little night fishing. I may 
get a striper or channel bass. Never 
can tell what may come along — that’s 
what I love about sea fishing; its endless 
variety and never-the-sameness.” 
As we dried the last tin dish the boys’ 
eyelids were hanging as heavy as their 
sinkers, so I drove them under their 
blankets, too sleepy to protest. They 
had had a strenuous day. So had I, but 
now was the best time of all, the beauti- 
ful falling of evening at the ocean’s edge. 
Not a sound but that made by the 
waves, not a light but that of the moon 
and stars and the glimmer of some ship’s 
light on the horizon. I cast, but where, 
I did not know — at night I never know 
if I have cast twenty feet or a hundred, 
but I cast far enough to get a return at 
any rate. 
My squid lay out on the bottom some- 
where and soon, out there in the dark, 
something picked it up and with a sav- 
age rush nearly yanked my rod from my 
hands. Out, out, toward the deep water, 
some mighty thing tore with my bait. I 
didn’t dare hold it too hard; I couldn’t, I 
simply had to let it go. My line got 
down to but a very few turns before I 
could take in a foot and then for nearly 
an hour or so, it seemed, we had it. I 
would gain a few yards only to lose it — 
back and forth, up and down the beach 
in the dark we fought. Finally I sensed 
a change — I was winning — I took in more 
line, lost a little, took in more, then some 
more and finally whatever was at the 
business-end of my line was brought 
through the breakers onto the beach. 
Hastily I rushed down and snapped on 
my flashlight. 
Great Scott! after five years trying, 
my big fish at last! I dragged him up 
and covered him with seaweed — then I 
turned in. 
Such sleep we had that night on the 
soft, springy sea grass, the salty sea air 
in our lungs and Old Ocean’s music in 
our ears. Not a mosquito disturbed our 
dreams, as our nets were closely drawn. 
T HE first rays of the sun, as it climbed 
up over the ocean’s edge, awakened 
the youngsters who piled out in a 
hurry to see what I might have landed 
