August, 1920 
FOREST AND STREAM 
465 
during my night’s fishing. Quietly they 
stole about in the cool morning air— 
“Hey, what’s this, I wonder,” said one, 
pointing to the pile of sea-weed held down 
by a board. “Wait a bit, boys, and I’ll 
be with you in a minute or two,” I called, 
as I was awake by that time. 
I crawled out and threw the sea-weed 
aside and there, in all its coppery beauty 
was my prize — a channel bass of about 
40 pounds. Red and glistening from 
the damp sea-weed he lay, with the mark 
of royalty, a black spot the size of a silver 
dollar at the base of his tail. When his 
highness had been sufficiently admired 
I photographed him and then cut off two 
steaks that I slipped into the pan for 
breakfast. These fish, while occasionally 
coarse, are, to my mind, exceedingly fine 
— the steaks especially are good broiled 
over the coals. 
After a dip into the briny we put 
away a breakfast that would have amazed 
anyone but a seasoned camper and dur- 
ing the cleaning up discussed the possi- 
bilities of the day. 
Tom and I decided to fish the morn- 
ing’s tide that was making in. The 
others thought that they would rather 
explore a bit, so, equipped with camera 
and canteen, they disappeared into the 
scrub. 
Tom and I heaved our baited hooks into 
the briny; the tide was near the flood. 
We lay on our backs upon the warm 
sand, full of breakfast and at peace with 
all the world. 
It proved to be a wonderful day, not 
too warm as yet, with light fleecy clouds, 
through which the sun shone intermit- 
tently, casting fantastic shadows on the 
water and on the beach. Tom relaxed 
more and more and was soon off into a 
snooze; a flock of “teeter” snipe settled 
at my very feet, a rabbit stole out from 
the dunes and looked us over. 
“Hey, Tom, wake up; look at the fish 
breaking,” I yelled. As far as the eye 
could reach the ocean was broken up by 
the splashes of an immense school of 
blues that was heading in. 
Oh, if they would only come near 
enough — “Whe-e-e” suddenly went my 
reel — so did Tom’s — and in a second we 
were fast into a couple of as ruthless 
pirates of the deep as ever tore to bits 
a school of moss-bunkers. 
As we were properly rigged this time, 
with wire leaders, we took enough of 
these exceedingly game fish to satisfy 
us for the time being. 
Tom was wild — hadn’t ever taken any- 
thing better than pickerel or small sized 
bass, and he could hardly be restrained 
from hunting up his companions to tell 
them. The blues soon passed on up the 
coast and, with the exception of a soli- 
tary croaker and a couple of pesky “dog- 
gies” no more fish came our way. 
We lazed back again too full of con- 
tent to do aught but “invite our souls”. 
What a picture for tired eyes; away in 
the distance, the gleaming sails of out- 
going vessels, the blue of the ocean be- 
neath and the blue of the sky overhead. 
More wild things came into view, a flock 
of noisy crows disputing vociferously 
over a bit of fish; a buzzard landed near 
and regarded us suspiciously. 
Small shore-birds noisily carried on 
their affairs in the bayberry bushes at 
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Can You Throw a Single or Double 
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FOREST AND STREAM 
9 EAST 40th STREET 
NEW YORK CITY, N. Y. 
