212 
FOREST AND STREAM 
I’d put the boat ashore and get out. I asked 
him also “what’d yer miss ’im fer?” 
He only glared—opened his mouth—and glared 
again; and I thought if looks could kill I’d sure 
be a dead one. 
I had stopped paddling and we were sitting 
there scowling at each other like two loving tom¬ 
cats. 
“Well,” I said, and drawled it out very long 
and in my most sarcastic intonation, “are you 
going to fish any more, or just sit there an’ feast 
on my beauty?” 
A snort was the only reply, as he stood up 
again and braced his feet in the bottom of the 
boat. (I forgot to say that at the climax of his 
outburst he suddenly sat down and nearly cap¬ 
sized the boat.) “You'll oblige me,” said he, “by 
not paddling another lick till I can cover this 
water carefully, and, maybe, in spite of a green 
sour-balled boatman, I can make that bass rise 
again.” 
I laid the paddle across the gunwales, with a 
nonchalant air, and filled my pipe, or rather 
started to fill it, for ere I could tamp the cut- 
plug home to my own particular satisfaction, the 
Red Bird had sailed forth on its mission, and a 
swirl! a splash ! was the answer, as it struck the 
water near the spot where the bass had previ¬ 
ously risen. 
“Hold him,” I yelled, “don’t give him any 
slack; don’t blame me if he gets off!” 
“Shut up,” he replied, as, with set lips, he be¬ 
gan to reel in; but reel in he couldn’t. The line 
went out with a rush and the handle of the reel 
hit Bill’s off thumb, I am sure, from what he 
said. 
Finally, by thumbing the reel, and some very 
tight line work, he managed to check the run 
and started to retrieve, only to have to repeat 
the performance time after time. 
At this point please allow me to digress, for a 
moment or two, in order to express my great 
irritation at this extreme tight line angling. It 
affords me, as it must afford all true anglers, 
exquisite pleasure to see just the proper tautness 
of line on a played fish; it being, to my mind, 
the essence of short-rod-angling, for, in this type 
of angling, one has but little help from the spring 
of the rod to aid him in the playing. But, for 
that matter, I am free to confess, confidentially, 
that I approved of but few moves made by my 
friend in handling his fish and I am sure I could 
have improved on most of them. This, however, 
I have never suggested to Bill; for why dampen 
the ardor of a good sort of fisherman, by disclos¬ 
ing to him the fine differences between fishing 
and angling? I really believe that he thinks, to 
this day, that he handled that bass in a masterly 
way. Perhaps he even allows himself to hold 
the opinion that I could have done no better. 
Mortals are certainly queer creatures, aren’t 
they? 
Well, to resume. The only remark thrown out 
by Bill, during all this time, was to the effect that 
I “would please keep the boat in open water and 
not turn it round and round like a confounded 
top.” This to me! who was aiding him material¬ 
ly by my dexterous handling of the boat. 
Each time the fish jumped clear of the water, 
Bill would groan. Each time the bass took a 
fresh lease on life and sprinted for deep water, 
Bill would mutter, and I could hear such words 
as “old line; pretty rotten I guess; got to be 
mighty kerful.” It seemed to me that Bill was 
paving the way to an excellent set of excuses, 
in case the fish got away. 
After what seemed an hour, the bass was 
brought alongside, an apparently dying fish, and 
I proceeded to net him after the most approved 
style. Suddenly, however, the brute woke up 
just as I was raising the net under him and hit 
the frame so hard with his tail that I thought 
he’d smash it. Then, quick as a flash, away 
went Mr. Bass and the ziz-z-z-z-z-z of the reel 
could not be drowned even by the broadside of 
wrath which Bill turned loose over that peaceful 
stream. 
Interspersed among the bursts of sulphur, I 
could catch occasionally such words as “Green¬ 
horn,” “Dub,” “Old Woman,” but I have never 
known precisely to whom he referred. I’ll ask 
any man this question: How in the name of 
Jehosaphat could I know that the blamed bass 
was going to try and break my landing net? I 
am no reader of overgrown bass’ minds. I 
don’t get paid to do that kind of work. 
Well, as I was saying, away went the bass 
and away went the line, but this time the work 
of retrieving the Big ’Un was less arduous and 
soon he was alongside again—the crucial moment 
had again arrived for both the basS and me. 
“Don’t be uneasy Bill,” says I, “he’s as good 
as in the boat this time;” and I looked up with 
a bright and confident smile on my face. This 
quickly vanished, however, when I saw his coun¬ 
tenance—I actually feared for his life. The 
sweat stood out in deep rivulets; the lips were 
compressed in a deadly line; the face was 
furrowed with wrinkles; and the eyes were posi¬ 
tively glassy in their horrible stare. 
“Bill,” I exclaimed, “Bill, old boy, are you 
ill?” 
A violent struggle seemed to be taking place 
within him; he appeared to be on the verge of 
apoplexy, as he strove to speak. Finally the 
words began to come forth. 
“I swear,” said he in a thick voice, “by the 
great guns of Halifax, that if this fish gets away, 
I’ll thump the living lights out o’ yer and dump 
yer overboard.” 
That was all he said—no more—and, as Bill 
is six two and I am but little better than five 
two, I eased the net under that bass with all the 
science and care I could muster; and, as he was 
led over it slowly, towed along on his side like 
a shingle, I brought the net up skillfully and 
stiff-heeled the brute into the boat at Bill’s feet. 
That fisherman got a strangle hold on the poor 
bass’ gills and throttled out the little life re¬ 
maining in the poor old fellow; all the while 
talking and gibbing away like his ancestors, the 
long tailed apes. As the fish gave a last ex¬ 
piring flutter and lay still, Bill let out a yell that 
scared the captain of a sloop, half mile away, 
nearly to death; and caused old Captain Tom 
to wonder if the Pamumkey Indians had risen 
against the whites. This war whoop seemed to 
act as a safety valve, for, then, as the bright sun 
comes out through the clouds after a long bad 
spell, came the most beautiful smile o’er my 
companion’s countenance—a smile the angels 
would envy. 
“Boy,” says he, “boy, I have killed the old 
he-one of ’em all and the Red Bird did it! I 
am going to patent that bait in all the civilized 
countries of the world; yes sir! I’ll be rich.” 
“Here, weigh him quick before he shrinks!” 
The bass weighed a fraction over ten pounds 
—some bass for Bill and the Red Bird to take, 
I claim, but then of course I helped them con¬ 
siderably, as you' must allow—but for the love 
of Mike never intimate this to Bill if you ever 
meet him; at any rate not unless you are a 
block away and near some convenient corner. 
I spent two days making Red Birds, and Bill 
ordered a special lot of red cedar from Santo 
Domingo and stayed away from his office nearly 
all the following winter, making Red Birds of 
every conceivable size and shape; but never from 
that day to this have we got a single rise to Red 
Bird. 
I have come to the conclusion that bass are 
very much like “the ladies” and I agree with 
Mr. R. Kipling: 
“You never can tell till you’ve tried ’em and 
then you ’re like to be wrong.” 
I remember another time, when Bill and I 
were down at Captain Tom’s, a bass jumped up 
and—but that’s too long to start now; maybe 
some time I’ll tell you about it. 
DOES THE BACK CAST STRAIGHTEN? 
Yonkers, N. Y., Feb. loth, 1915. 
Editor Forest and Stream: 
Months ago I ventured to address an inquiry 
to one of our prominent sportsman’s magazines, 
concerning the “straightening out” of the line on 
the back cast. The communication was prompt¬ 
ed by just then having read once more in the 
pages of the author of one of the new dry-fly 
books, this same reference as of yore, regarding 
waiting for the line to “straighten out behind” 
before beginning the forward cast. 
I offered the suggestion that perhaps instan¬ 
taneous photographs would show that mayhap 
that line did not straighten out till after the 
forward cast was begun, basing this upon what 
I had seen of actual use of the line by experts, 
while fishing, and in such a light that made every 
inch of the line clear to the observer. Further, 
I inquired if any such photos had ever been 
made. 
For one reason or another my letter was ignor-- 
ed; whether or not the inquiry was considered 
too absurd for serious consideration I cannot say. 
The whole matter was brought back to my 
mind last evening while reading Samuel G. 
Camp’s excellent little book on “The Fine Art 
of Fishing.” If I knew nothing about Mr. 
Camp’s book save this reference, I would say 
that he wrote as a man who knew whereof he 
spoke. Here is the passage: 
“I have suggested waiting for the line to 
straighten out behind the caster on the back cast 
that is, before beginning the forward cast. In¬ 
stantaneous photographs of expert casters, how¬ 
ever, show that in actual practice the line does 
not entirely straighten out in the rear before the 
forward cast is started; that, in fact, there is a 
considerable loop at the end of the line which 
straightens out just after the caster begins the 
forward cast. The theory of this is quite plain. 
If, when casting a rather long line, you wait 
until the line becomes quite straight behind you, 
you wait just long enough for the line to lose 
its life. The forward cast then, should be start¬ 
ed when the line, having passed to the rear of 
the caster, just begins to pull appreciably on 
the rod. On the other hand, do not start the 
forward cast too quickly, because this is liable 
to snap off the end fly.” 
Sincere congratulations to Mr. Camp. 
GEO. PARKER HOLDEN. 
