forest and s t re am 
come taut. As it dots so you strike, raise your 
rod firmly but gently, with your thumb pressed 
hard on the line, or holding the handle that con¬ 
trols some reels. Right here most new anglers 
part company with the fish, as it is necessary 
to remember that you are angling under the 
highest code of angling ethics ever devised for 
the undoing of angler and fish. You can put 
just forty-two pounds’ pressure on that line, as 
it is tested for the Tuna Club to stand just 
two pounds to the strand, and there are just 
twenty-one strands or threads. But you say this 
is fishing, not logarithms. So it is, gentle read¬ 
er (and not very gentle if he loses the fish), 
but this very thing is what saves this sport from 
the inevitable. If you could “yank” him in, as 
anyone can with a rope, where would be the 
sport? 
Almost anyone with practice can rope a good- 
natured steer, or take him by the tail and throw 
him over on the run ; but where you try the same 
thing with a cord that will break at the slightest 
overstrain, it becomes something worth while, as 
you know that the game has all the advantage, 
and that you with your intelligence have mag¬ 
nanimously conceded it to the handicapped game. 
During this diversion the reel has been singing, 
growing louder, and now, as you brace back and 
“give it to him,” there comes a scream from the 
brass-tongued reel, the line vibrates and tosses 
the spray, the tip bends, and you know you have 
hooked him. By this time, when you are sure 
that you have not been jerked overboard, your 
line is being torn from the reel as though a can¬ 
non ball was fastened to it. The reel screams. 
Tou have lost one hundred feet, two hundred, 
three hundred, four hundred, and your boatman 
is shouting, “Hang to ’im, sir; stop ’im if you 
can!” Meantime he is getting under way and 
the launch heads off shore to the southwest at 
full speed while you try to reel. The proposi¬ 
tion now is tc direct the fish from a certain 
outer kelp forest for which he is headed. You 
hold hard, reeling when you can, pumping the 
rod up and down and making a foot now and 
then, losing it all to gain it again. The boat¬ 
man has now stopped the launch, you have di¬ 
verted the fish from the forest and he is towing 
the heavy launch slowly out to sea. This seems 
impossible when you remember the size of the 
line, but it is a fact, and you hold on with a 
determination to win, while the big bass nearly 
pulls your arms out of their sockets. It is now 
a question of endurance. Some bass have been 
known to wear out two or three men; others 
surrender very soon, but your average three 
hundred pounder will give you all the exercise 
you are entitled to before you bring him to 
the gaff. 
I was once fishing with two friends when one 
of them hooked a bass and played him for half 
an hour. Another took the rod and promptly 
was beaten; they could not gain a foot on the 
fish. Then I took it, fresh and full of experi¬ 
ence, but they were soon laughing at my fail¬ 
ure. That fish towed us slowly but surely out 
to sea, and at last broke the line. We never 
saw him, hence he stands in the high perspec¬ 
tive as the “sockdolleger" of our dreams. But 
this bass is not in that class. He has his limita¬ 
tion and comes slowly in, now circling the boat, 
tearing off with tremendous power. All the 
tricks a black bass will play on you except leap¬ 
ing, this monster tries, even 
to coming in on the line 
and driving you to despair 
as you reel in yard after 
yard, soliloquizing, think¬ 
ing in invective, and even 
quietly swearing — really 
one of the prerogatives of 
the boatman who looks it 
even if he does control 
himself—but it is only a 
trick on the part of a big 
fish. 
The line suddenly comes 
taut, and away it goes in a 
rush so irresistible that a 
hundred feet of line is lost 
before you know what has 
happened. Half an hour, 
perhaps an hour, slips by 
and you realize what a 
combat of one round is 
with the foils and no time. 
But every moment you 
stop reeling or fighting, 
the big game is resting. 
The secret is to keep at 
him. At the end of forty 
minutes the boatman takes 
his gaff and cries: “I see 
him, sir!” this to encour¬ 
age you. Every time he 
thinks you are losing in¬ 
terest or your wind, he 
shouts with the greatest 
suppressed excitement, “I 
see him, sir; you got him 
coming, sir!” How you 
wish you had. But these 
calls on your pride by the 
boatman always succeed and 
this is no exception. You 
are worn to a frazzle; your 
right arm is numb to the 
elbow; you have pulled, 
hauled, pummeled and mauled beyond the dreams 
of the most muscular osteopathist. You are 
about ready to give in as the mighty fish circles 
the boat like a nightmare of all the fishes, when, 
suddenly, for the first time, you feel a slack¬ 
ing up. You bend to it, lift reel, bend again 
for your life, and it at last sinks into your soul 
that you have the big game on the run. 
The monster turns. You catch a glimpse of 
its white belly, see a big blue eye, and it strikes 
you as a pleasant eye, then the bass rolls over 
like an animated earthquake, half out of water, 
and deluges jou. “Now, sir!” shouts the boat¬ 
man, a paean of victory trembling in his voice. 
You bend to it; a mighty lift, and you have the 
fish on the quarter; the big gaff is slipped under 
its colossal head, and with a wrench, amid fly¬ 
ing scud and tremors as of an earthquake, great 
convulsions and violent blows, the boatman has 
a mighty head out of the water, and hangs on, 
laughing and shouting, while you stand, over¬ 
running your reel, wiping the flying scud from 
your face, a sort of modern Csesar; at least, you 
feel that you have conquered the world. 
“Finely done, sir. Never saw a fish better 
handled, and he is a corker,” says the boatman. 
You know you have made a mess of it, but 
you do admire the technique of the boatman. 
Fishing From the Rocks—But Not for Black Sea Bass. 
You feel for a ten-dollar gold piece as a tip 
and one of your best cigars goes with it. 
The launch has a block and tackle rigged to 
the mast, and after the fish has been killed it 
is hooked on and the boatman hauls the colos¬ 
sus out of its element and swings it across the 
deck—nearly seven feet long, comely, well 
shaped, a perfect bass. Two hours later, when 
it is hoisted onto the Tuna Club scales at Ava¬ 
lon, it weighs 327 pounds. Then you photo¬ 
graph it to prove the story, but when you tell 
it and show the picture and exhibit a piece of 
the line, no one believes it, and it is really so 
remarkable and so big a fish story, that you 
do not care whether they believe it or not. You 
have the supreme satisfaction of knowing that it 
is true and that you have killed one of the big¬ 
gest fishes of the sea that can be taken with a 
rod, in the fairest way. 
You are reading "Forest and Stream” and en¬ 
joying it. Why not furnish some of yout 
friends who may not be acquainted with the 
good things in this issue, an hour or two of 
similar enjoyment? If you will take the trouble 
to send us the names of any of your circle of 
acquaintances, we will see that they are sup¬ 
plied with a sample copy with your compliments. 
