June 29, 1912 
FOREST AND STREAM 
817 
so that I could get a full glimpse of his rotund, 
prosperous form. 
There he lay, and with a whispered word to 
my companion I got into action. The bamboo 
responded like a thing of life, and without be¬ 
coming excited, thougli within me there was a 
sense of breathless expectation. I sent the fly 
out to its destination, being sure that my foot¬ 
ing was good and my position just right. 
The flies dipped, the leader touched the sur¬ 
face, and its mate came a close second. Tiny 
ripples spread; it was just a moment, a bare 
space of time counted in seconds, and with my 
teeth clenched and my heart still, it happened. 
It happened, I say, and it happened with incon¬ 
ceivable rapidity; in fact, I was almost taken 
off my feet by the impetus of that strike. What 
I had counted on from the time I first laid eyes 
on that fish was now to be experienced. A feel¬ 
ing of great jubilation surged through my form. 
My nerves settled down and the wildness in me 
became of a fixed nature, acquired from being 
brought face to face with many a captured bass, 
and being the active member of many a fight 
on stream and lake. 
“You got him! You got him, bless my 
soul!’’ caroled Jack, with his head turned and 
his eyes, seen just for a moment, all alight with 
the fire of battle. He dipped the oars and waited 
for m3’ word. 
Barely had that fellow struck than he rose 
high and dry of the surface and made an up¬ 
ward flight straight up, and when he had reached 
the apex of his endeavor he shook his form like 
a mad dog would shake a woodchuck, and then 
realizing that he was unable to get loose from 
that detaining contrivance, he dove down again 
into the deep and thus began the fight. 
Keeping the line more or less taut, I worked 
the line with my left hand, watching and wait¬ 
ing for the moment when the daring and pug¬ 
nacious fish would rush toward us at that rate 
of speed that onU' too often proves a handicap¬ 
ping factor to the fisherman. I was sort of bent 
forward, giving out line as the big fellow raced 
out in a semi-circle and ended up his wild career 
in that direction by darting out of the water on 
a slant that sent a shower of sparkling drops 
off of his form, each seeming to be touched 
with brightness, for the sun, now high above 
the treetops, illuminated with a dazzling flood 
of light the whole scene that lay around us. He 
shook himself again with his gills distended 
wide, and heavens, such a fish! 
“Hold close I Hold close, and don’t let him 
get the best of you!” shouted Jack, from the 
center of the boat. “He will try something dif¬ 
ferent now. Don’t try to pla}' him with the line; 
use the reel, and watch out when he goes under 
the boat. He’ll be sure to do that.” 
Jack had gauged the situation rightly and 
I was of the same opinion, as with another dive 
into the water the slack line that had accumu¬ 
lated was eaten up, and when the main part of 
the line again got into motion, it showed that 
the big bass was darting our way like a shot 
from a gun, fairly cutting thje water with the 
line. I was in a pleasant fix; the line accumu¬ 
lated thick and fast. I held the rod high and 
strove to reel in as fast as possible, but it was 
of no use. 
“There he goes,” shouted Jack again, laying 
down the oars and bending forward to get a 
glimpse of the fighting fish, now seemingly fran¬ 
tic and aroused to a pitch that held all the 
vitality in his body. I reeled in the line as 
quickly as it was possible for me to do. Under 
the boat he shot, but Jack, who was a king among 
oarsmen, had his hands working, and by a gentle 
turn, got fair and clean away from the fish and 
the line. So far so good, but^— 
“The net. Jack! The net!” I broke out, 
swinging in my tracks, and taking up the fight 
on the other side. I knew that the battle would 
soon be ending, and I wanted to be fit for the 
climax. 
A muttered exclamation greeted my request, 
and then Jack swore roundly. “We failed to 
bring the net along. I left it up there on the 
shore when we came down to the boat. When 
I threw in the anchor I laid down the net and 
forgot to put it in.” 
“Never mind,” I said, giving line again to 
the fish, which was gradually slowing down and 
evidently showing signs of fatigue. “I think I 
have him pretty well under control now, but sort 
of help me when I get him up to the boat.” 
Suddenly, and without any warning, the fish 
again came toward me, but slowed down to such 
an extent that I was able to spool in all the re¬ 
maining line. Step by step I brought him in 
from the deep, and presently I had him close up 
to the boat. He was a monster, if ever there 
was one, and for just a moment there we stood 
and sat and looked down at him in wonder. 
“Six pounds if he's an ounce,” breathed Jack, 
with his hands grasping the edge of the boat, 
and half risen with his head thrust out and a 
look of gratification illuminating his sun-browned 
countenance. It is a fact that Jack gains more 
from seeing others fight and bring in the fish 
than to do the playing himself. He loves to row 
you out among the lilypads, and in every way, 
shape and manner make your tour of the waters 
a glorious success. Anyone who could have 
seen Jack thus viewing the lordly one would have 
sworn that of the two of us the man bending 
over the edge of the boat was the happiest. 
With the rod high over me, and bent in a 
perfect arch, I told Jack to grasp the leader, and 
by a quick movement, transfer the denizen of 
the deep from his home to the bottom of the 
craft. Jack wasted no time, but took the leader, 
and w'ith a handy movement—splash! 
What happened in those intervening few 
moments it is hard to say. There was a flash 
of arms, sundry and various exclamations, inter¬ 
mingled with sulphurous phrases, and Jack, half 
out of the boat, announced that the fish was in 
the deep, free from the hook. The creature 
had shaken loose from the barb, and like the 
countless hosts that had followed before that 
had saddened the hour of many a piscatorialist, 
it was another of the big ones that got away. 
“It was like this,” said Jack, and was it a 
tear or just common, unpolluted lake water that 
glistened in the corner of his eye. “You see, 
when I pulled up on the line he made one gigan¬ 
tic plunge, and wrested the hook out of his 
mouth, and while I tried to hold him with my 
hands, the fins just naturally brought blood and 
pain.” 
I sighed long and deeply. “Jack, do you 
know that I have a slinking notion that we can 
get that identical big fellow at twilight at this 
same spot just out there where the weeds thrust 
themselves out of the water? We will let him 
forget it through the day, but take my word for 
it, as a man who has plunked artificial minnows 
day in and day out through various summers, 
who has cast live frogs equally as much, that if 
we will use the steel rod and a nice little green 
frog on the weedless, it will prove the down¬ 
fall of the big bass of Placid Lake, as I shall 
immortalize the occasion in print.” 
There was a wrinkle in the middle of Jack’s 
forehead that foretold a disbelief in our being 
able to overcome this proceeding, and that it 
would be many a day before the bass would take 
bait again before he was sure it was the real 
thing. 
“There is no use mourning over his loss,” 
I said, with the pipe between my teeth. “There 
are others down there by the point that will need 
looking after. We’ll try the point first and then 
the little bayou across there.” Jack livened up 
and soon we were on our way, with the oars 
creaking merrily, with future opportunities loom¬ 
ing up big before us. Briefly to say, we caught 
our share of the black bass between the two 
points mentioned, and spent the rest of that day 
enjoying ourselves. I routed out the typewriter 
and hammered out my usual number of words, 
but found that inspiration was more or less 
lacking. Always there seemed to come between 
me and the white face of the keys the scene that 
had been enacted during those morning hours. 
Strange to say I did not feel satisfied. There 
was something missing in filling out the wonder¬ 
ful completeness of that day, and I knew what 
it was. I had failed to catch my fish, and I 
felt an eagerness come over me to sense the old 
fighter again on the hook. I rolled out the last 
paper of copy and tucked it away, and it then 
being about 3 o’clock and still early. Jack no¬ 
where around and everything agreeable, I laid 
down in the hammock to enjoy a bit of sleep. 
That sleep was an extended one. The languor 
of the pleasant summer day had gotten into my 
veins, and somehow or another I slept longer 
than I thought. When I came to I found that 
the sun was climbing down over the treetops. 
I rose hastily and glanced around, and what 
should I behold with eyes that were bulged out 
of my head. There, dangling from a convenient 
limb, fat and husky, with every trace about his 
body as that of a fighter, was one of the biggest 
bass I have ever seen. One glance was suf¬ 
ficient. I had a startling idea. 
A second glance showed me Jack with a 
smile three-quarters of a mile across, just pre¬ 
paring the fire for the evening meal. We looked 
at each other. We looked again, and then I 
looked at the fish, and then again^ at Jack. 
“Of all the ornery, shrewd and withal won¬ 
derful men, it is you,” I remarked, hunting for 
my pipe. “I take it that during my pleasant 
nap, all unaware, you went out and caught one 
of the wisest fighters of our Northern waters, 
said fighter having once escaped a certain fel¬ 
low’s lure, but which was to eventually meet his 
fate at the hook if a well-laid plot was to find 
birth. This, I take it, is the big black bass of 
Placid Lake.” 
“The same,” said Jack, and then he up and 
told, me all about it. “I saw you were con¬ 
tentedly sleeping, and I didn’t want to disturb 
you. It was getting about bass time and so I 
hunted up a cute little frog, went out and caught 
the fellow. I fought him about twenty minutes 
and say, of all the fighting”— 
I lit my pipe. 
