FOREST AND STREAM 
shake the six hundred pound brute like he was 
a dish rag. 
The bear with a whimper of alarm, dropped 
to all fours, missed the dog a foot or more with 
his swipe, then stood up again to shove the man 
out of his way. The dog came to scratch 
promptly and set his teeth in the standing ani¬ 
mal’s other hind leg, and again tried to shake 
him. 
This was too much for old Bald Face, who 
with another frightened squeal, dropped and 
again made a vain reach for the dog, then jostled 
by the man almost knocking him off his feet 
and half rolled, half ran down the canyon’s steep 
sides, the little black terror after him, barking 
and biting whenever near enough. The big ani¬ 
mal’s fright was such, he ran miles without 
slackening speed as his trail showed next morn¬ 
ing. 
“Ef you all cotch any of dem drum tonight 
would leave ’em on de beach? Mah brudder an' 
some boys frum de mainlan’ll come ovah an’ 
git ’em.” 
Thus Ralph, our colored factotum, as surf 
rods in hand we left the cozy interior of the 
club house and plunged into the darkness. Ralph 
was a “good nigger” and his drum-loving rela* 
tions numerous, and although it was our custom 
to return channel bass alive to the water after 
being weighed, we agreed to accommodate him. 
It was nine o’clock of a pitch-black night 
when we took up our march over the ghostly 
sand dunes to the surf, the swinging lantern 
of the Cicerone leading the way and the pres¬ 
ident and myself plodding patiently behind. The 
salty wind blew .strong in our faces and ahead 
the surf called loudly, but our attention was 
fixed on the yellow glow which enveloped the 
Cicerone and which gave momentary glimpses 
of scuttling sand crabs and waving sea oats 
as it opened a path through the blackness. 
Finally the Cicerone halted by the familiar 
cracker box—drawn above high-water mark to 
locate the edge of a flat—and) here we took 
counsel together. 
“I think we’d better go down to the Inlet,” was 
his comment. “The tide is well up now and they 
ought to be running in there.” 
The president was willing but the writer de¬ 
murred. The Inlet was a swift, deep passage 
connecting the ocean with the sound. It lay 
about half a mile south of us down the beach, 
and the southern extremity of the narrow penin¬ 
sula on which we stood was low and flat, so that 
the tide swept entirely across it at high water. 
To stand thigh deep in this swirling current 
and to be entirely surrounded by unknown wa¬ 
ters on a dark night was not to the writer’s 
liking. On the previous evening, while playing a 
30-pound channel bass down there, he had near¬ 
ly stepped into a deep hole, and—well, the writ¬ 
er’s bump of caution is highly developed; he 
elected to stay where he was. The others would 
go down to the Inlet. 
With good wishes on bo h sides our little party 
separated, and I saw the night engulf my friends 
Cats, catamounts and bears; this is a truth¬ 
ful account of some of them. And these are the 
kind of animals many writers try to make dan¬ 
gerous—yes, and even grown men will run from. 
Bah! A crane, or even a little bittern when cor¬ 
nered will put up a better fight than they, and 
when it comes to courage, an eagle is king of 
them all. He never waits for an enemy to go to 
him, but rushes to the attack himself. More¬ 
over he will not weaken while breath remains in 
him. This the writer knows by experience, for 
the fiercest, gamest thing he ever killed was a 
tip winged bald eagle. 
These others, sneaking cats and shaggy planti¬ 
grades are four flushers one and all; good only 
to make a noise, spit, snarl and growl, then to 
run and hide when the pace gets hot and there’s 
danger in the air. 
when they had gone but a few feet from me, 
and watched their lantern dancing like a will-o’- 
the-wisp down the beach until it was lost to 
sigh". Then I stuck my rod in the sandspike, 
threaded the line through the guides, and put 
on a “rig” entirely by the sense of touch as it 
was so dark I could not see what I was doing. 
Feeling in my box for a good fat mullet, 1 
baited my hook and stepped down to the surf to 
cast. 
Did you ever fish alone on a wild beach on a 
A Pair, of Which Any Angler Might be Proud. 
365 
black night? There is something weird, uncanny 
about it that lingers long in memory. The sense 
of complete isolation from all human kind; the 
mysterious darkness pressing in on you from all 
sides; that inky void into which you drive your 
bait and know to be the ocean but cannot see, 
save where a long line of white breakers flash 
spectre-like in the blackness and where the waves 
are washing around your feet. AM about you 
the thunder and reverberation of the surf, above 
the sound of which come the shrill cries of a 
flock of unseen shearwaters flying somewhere 
out to sea. 
Fishing for about twenty minutes without a 
strike I reeled in, found my bait untouched, and 
fell to wondering how my companions were and 
to regret that I had not ventured the Inlet. Then 
I cast out again. 
Presently off in the east it grew lighter. The 
change was scarcely perceptible at first and one 
would have had to look twice to notice it, but 
gradually a suffused glow overspread the east¬ 
ern horizon, mounting higher and higher, until 
the upper segment of the full moon appeared 
over the rim of the ocean. With astonishing 
rapidity the glorious orb disclosed herself, swim¬ 
ming upward through the ever brightening sky 
and flooding sea and shore with golden splendor 
—creating a new world. 
And now that the beach was nearly as light 
as day I discovered that I had been fishing in 
the wrong place. I had been fishing in the hole, 
and at extreme high water most of our channel 
bass had been caught on the flats. Accordingly 
1 moved up the beach a hundred feet or more 
and cast where the long lines of breakers ran 
hissing over the shoals and where the waters 
seethed white and foam flecked. 
No sooner -had my bait touched the water when 
—Bang! And he was off. I knew him for a 
channel bass by his violent contortions. None 
but he dances the couchee-couchee on his tail and 
shakes the line as a bull dog shakes the strap 
you are holding. Those frantic, vicious move¬ 
ments of the fish’s head as he endeavors to dis¬ 
lodge the hook! Every time I experience them 
my heart comes into my mouth. Is he firmly 
hooked? Has the barb sunk deep? If not he 
will shake loose and nothing I can do will pre¬ 
vent it; but evidently this fish was firmly fast¬ 
ened, for after interrupting his run several times 
to try his favorite maneuver he settled down to 
a powerful dash seaward. 
But why attempt to describe the fight of a 
channel bass? Those who have experienced it 
can supplement my inadequate words with their 
imagination, and live with me the joy of that 
struggle as I battled my submarine torpedo boat 
through the moonlit sea. Those who have not 
experienced it could gain little by added words, 
for it is not in the power of language to ade¬ 
quately describe a pleasure or a pain. 
My fish fought in the broad, silvery path of 
the moon on the water, and occasionally I would 
glimpse the shadow of a mighty -tail or the cur¬ 
vature of a broad back as he swam on the sur¬ 
face. Then he would dive, and the steady strain 
on the line and quivering rod alone told that 
my capture was out there in the roaring breakers 
struggling for life. But his runs grew shorter 
and feebler, and at last I drew my prize clear of 
the wash; white and glistening as he lay on the 
wet sands. 
A Wonderful Night 
By B. C. Clapp. 
