114 
FOREST AND STREAM 
Jan. 24, 1914. 
ness. At length he remarked, “Well—I'll—be 
—hanged,” then to Fred, “Go to sleep; its some 
of Smith’s tomfoolery.” 
The young man replied, “Get up Dad and 
see what it is.” 
“Go look yourself. I ain’t lost any Mor- 
iarities,” his father answered, then with one ac¬ 
cord both reached and shook the guide. 
“Smith, hey! Smith!” they called. 
“What’s the matter? What is it?” he re¬ 
plied sleepily, rubbing his eyes. 
“Say, Smith,” Fred whispered, his mouth 
close to the guide’s ear, “Smith, there’s some¬ 
body knocking over by the stove.” 
* “Don’t hurt the stove none, does it?” he an¬ 
swered yawning. 
Then came more loud knocks, four of 
them. This woke the guide like an electi.c 
shock. He exclaimed, “Well, I’ll be switched. 
Who in Sam Hill is prowling around this time 
of night?” As he reached for his electric torch 
he called into the blackness of the corner, “Say, 
you sport, come from behind that stove and tell 
us who you be unless you want a 30-30 pill un¬ 
der your jacket.” 
No answer, but Fred had decided to imi¬ 
tate a bluebill and was out of sight. 
A slight noise as of a person moving care¬ 
fully, came from the corner, but when Joe found 
his light and flashed it in direction of the raps, 
nothing was to be seen. 
“What do you know about that?” he asked 
of Fred’s father, who had been a silent listener, 
uncertain what to do. “Come, wake up man,” 
he called when Sam did not stir, “Wake up! get 
your gun and we’ll see what’s outside.” 
The two men, sooned joined by the others 
whom the talking had awakened, searched thor¬ 
oughly around camp for signs of the mysterious 
knocker and found nothing, although between the 
bright moon and Joe’s torch they could see well, 
even into the timber, except in one place where 
a thick briar patch came close to their sleeping 
quarters. 
“Strange,” said Sam as they returned to 
bed, a shade of doubt in his voice. “Seems to 
have vanished into thin air.” 
“Blamed funny” agreed the guide, while Fred 
could not find voice to express his thoughts, only 
pulled the blankets further over his head. 
At breakfast next morning they all gabbled 
over the night’s happenings like a lot of jays in a 
cornfield. Nobody agreed with anybody about 
Moriarity, his mine, the knockings or even the 
day’s shooting. Fred and Jack stayed at camp 
and every time they passed near the stove, they 
eyed it with suspicion as if it alone was respon¬ 
sible for their ghostly visitor. Smith and the Old 
Timer started for Lillian River canyon and when 
they reached the rim, the walls were so steep, the 
bottom so far down and it was so dark and 
gloomy, they backed out, made a short scurry af¬ 
ter grouse and returned to help the boys discuss 
Moriarity. The other two hunted bear all day, 
and declared a hoodoo had followed them for 
they saw neither bruin nor any of his signs or 
tracks. 
That night Fred expressed the feelings of the 
others when he said, as the lights were exting¬ 
uished, “Thank goodness we’ll be out of the 
mountains before next full moon when another 
visit from the old miner is due.” Nevertheless 
he was nervous and wakeful, due, perhaps, to a 
strong pipe or stronger coffee. 
About midnight, as he rolled restlessly under 
his blankets, the blood in his veins almost turned 
to ice when he heard clear and distinct the same 
Rap ! Rap ! Rap! 
“Torment that old knocker; what does he 
have to come so often for?” he said to himself, 
then elbowed and shook the guide screaming in 
his ear, “Joe! Joe! Wake up. He’s here again. 
Old Moriarity’s come back.” 
Smith responded instantly and soon was 
standing on the floor of the canvas covered shed 
which served as a sleeping room, burning torch 
in one hand, loaded shot gun in the other. When 
no unbidden guest or roaming ghost was found 
inside, he hunted outside back of camp and 
among the trees. It was not long before a loud 
Bang! Bang! from his gun, followed by a never- 
to-be-forgotten odor brought the others crowd¬ 
ing to the door, as Smith shouted, “Fred! Fred! 
I’ve killed your ghost. Do you smell him? 
Them sports always raps that way with their 
fore legs when they’re scared.” 
And during the remainder of that trip but 
little was said of Moriarity, his mine or his 
ghost arrd even the uncanny raps in the middle 
of a moonlig-ht night were forgotten. The only 
question not settled was, “Did Joe know all the 
time the knocking came from a skunk, seeking 
warmth from the smoldering fire in their stove.” 
A Night’s Fishing for Channel Bass 
The Story of a Fishing Trip to Mayport, Florida—The Channel Bass Fisherman’s Paradise 
OME on,” said my friend Dr. Garner, as 
he drove up in his “Cadillac” one after¬ 
noon in early September, to our place of 
business. “I have made all arrangements for a 
night of Channel bass fishing and we must start 
right away.” We were soon in his car—Dr. 
Holland, my nine year old boy, W. T. Jr., and 
myself. Ferrying across the St. John’s at Jack¬ 
sonville we speeded away over the brick-paved 
road leading to Mayport, our destination, 
twenty-five miles away. One hour later we were 
at the little village where there is fair channel 
bass fishing most every year from late Aug. to 
Nov. Tourist fishermen will find the boatmen 
competent, and accommodating and the charges 
less than any place in Florida. We asked a small 
boy if he knew where John Tillisou, our boat¬ 
man, could be found. What he said I will re¬ 
fer to later. At any rate “John” soon came in 
and we lost no time in getting in his launch and 
away for the fishing grounds, two miles distant 
near the North Jetties looking out on 
“The sea! the sea, the open sea! 
The blue, the fresh, the ever free!” 
Scarcely a ripple was on the waters and the af¬ 
ternoon was hot and sultry. After we had cast 
anchor and Tillison commenced baiting our hooks 
he found, to his very great surprise that he had 
no bait. He was apparently greatly disconcert- 
ted at his “well” being empty. Hadn’t he caught 
plenty of bait just the afternoon before and 
didn’t he have an ample supply when he ’phoned 
the Dr. that everything was ready for us? On 
the other hand, had we not enquired of the 
small boy that afternoon who told us that Tilli¬ 
son had been at home all morning and had ex¬ 
pressed his doubts as to where he would secure 
bait? “I like a liar,” said the Dr. in an under¬ 
tone to me. “Do you wonder though when you 
remember his calling?” Ti.hson was equal to the 
occasion, however, for he soon crawled into a 
little canoe he had in tow and said he would be 
back shortly with all the bait we needed. 
“Let me go with you,” said I. “All right, 
but pull off your shoes and roll up your pants, 
for we have to have water in our boat to bring 
our bait back alive.” We ran up into a little cove 
just back of St. George Island and Tillison waded 
out quite a distance to make a cast. He made two 
or three casts which were successful and I was 
taking things easy when all at once a cloud of 
mosquitoes swooped down upon me and proceed¬ 
ed to make life miserable for me. When Tilli¬ 
son returned I was fighting for existence. As 
fast as I would rub them off one foot they would 
cover the other. 
“What shall I do 10 be kept from being 
eaten alive?” thought I. Suddenly an inspiration 
seized me—Tillison used tobacco. I would chew 
and expectorate on my feet. 
“Give me a chew of brown mule.” Would it 
make me sick? Would I take that advice— 
“Whether ’tis better to bear the ills we have, 
than fly to others we know not of?” 
Not for me. Let me have “brown mule” at 
once. 
I took a chew—the first in life and com¬ 
menced on it immediately. For fifteen minutes 
Tillison continued catching bait and I was as busy 
as he, driving away the mosquitos. When Tillison 
was ready to go back I had about rid myself of 
my pests. Did my plan work? Of course it did. 
Hadn’t I disproved the old master about “the 
ills we have etc?” Seemingly so. I spat out my 
brown mule and was in the act of patting myself 
on the back when all at once the boat commenced 
turning ’round and ’round. What was Tillison 
trying to do? Couldn’t he get started better than 
that? I tried to look at him, but the boat was 
turning so fast I could not see him. That canoe 
was too narrow anyway. I tried to grip both 
sides tight and hold myself steady but I simply 
couldn’t do it. The boat was too fast for me. 
It seemed that I could see Tillison reaching for 
me, but he was too slow for I lost my balance 
and the next thing I knew Tillison was out of 
the boat also putting me back into it. The water 
was only three feet deep—three hut*tired would 
have been no deeper to me at that time—and I 
remember faintly as he was putting me back in 
the boat, I asked him what on earth he was try¬ 
ing to do with that boat. He replied that it 
wasn’t him—that just as he was ready to pull out 
he glanced at me and saw that “brown mule” was 
bucking with me and before he could reach me 
“brown mule” had thrown me into the water. 
When he rolled me limply into the boat did I try 
to sit up? Not I. I thought of that phrase, “Yt> 
gods and little fishes.” At any rate I was with 
the little fishes in the bottom of the boat and 
there I stayed until we reached the launch, ex¬ 
cept every three seconds I would try to get my 
head over the edge of the boat—for I wished to 
have some of the bait ahve when we returned. 
I told the boatman I would soon be all right if 
we ever got back to the launch. That Dr. Gar¬ 
ner would soon fix me. He did. As an echo I 
