May, 1918 
FOREST AND STREAM 
271 
We used up considerable elbow-grease 
getting “ Lizzie ” into the water 
Bye and bye one of the boys who had 
gone to the brook with a lantern yelled. 
“They're here, fellers!” This announce¬ 
ment was followed by a scramble. Bud 
pulled on his waders and plunged into the 
brook with the net while I stood on the 
bank with the lantern to bag the smelts he 
should dip and throw out to me. The 
brook was perhaps 30 feet wide and of 
various depths. Dipping smelts is more a 
matter of feeling then seeing—you make 
a sweeping scoop and trust to luck. At the 
first dip Bud got two big, fat fellows and 
threw them flopping on the grass at my 
feet. At the next scoop he got three, but 
his aim was not so good this time. I was 
standing on shore with my mouth open 
gazing into the gloom when a big, cold 
clammy smelt hit me a fierce wallop right 
between the face and eyes! “Did you get 
that one?” calls Bud. “Yes, I did,” I 
hisses, “and if you hit me in the map with 
another smelt I’ll wade in there and drown 
you!” 1 thought I heard Bud chuckle, but 
wasn’t sure. After a while Bud asked me 
if I wanted to try my hand at it and I said 
yes—that I’d rather dip for a spell than 
stand on the bank and dodge smelts. Then 
I donned the hip boots and waded in. 
T HE current was quite swift. I edged 
out into the stream knee-deep and 
got busy. Of course I wasn’t as ex¬ 
pert as Bud, but in about 25 or 30 dips I 
got perhaps half that number of smelts. 
I thought it would be a good idea to shift 
my position upstream a bit, so I started 
wading against the current. I was getting 
along fine until suddenly I stepped grace¬ 
fully off the edge of a ledge and went into 
ice cold water up to my breast-bone! This 
was a good deal of a surprise to me. With a 
choking “U-u-g-g-h!” I floundered ashore 
dripping, to the great joy of Bud and all 
the other smelters who saw the exhibition. 
Right there I lost all interest in the game. 
My teeth chattered until I was afraid I’d 
break some of ’em off. Bud said we had 
all the smelts we needed anyhow, so we 
beat it for camp where I got out of my 
wet clothes and into bed. “Listen to that 
wind,” says I as I was about to doze off. 
“It sounds good to me,” says Bud; “the 
lake will be clean as a whistle tomorrow 
morning if that keeps up—and then for 
the salmon, Newt.” 
When we looked out the window at day¬ 
break next morning the wind had almost 
performed the miracle—the lake was nearly 
clear of ice and the breeze was dying out. 
We hustled thru breakfast and then scam¬ 
pered for the boat house to get “Elizabeth” 
into the water. This proved to be a bigger 
proposition than either of us had counted 
Bud cranked “ Lizzie ” until he oozed 
perspiration and profanity 
on. “Elizabeth” must have weighed nearly 
half a ton and she couldn’t help herself a 
bit. Besides we had to roll her nearly 100 
feet to float her in the lake. Bud and I 
pulled and pushed and hauled and dragged 
and perspired and grunted and cussed to 
the best of our ability, but it was neariy 
11 o’clock before we got “Lizzie” into the 
lake. Then we decided we’d have lunch 
and make a long afternoon trolling for 
salmon. 
It was about noon when we stepped 
aboard with our rods. At the first turn of 
the wheel “Lizzie” began to purr and as 
we shot away from shore Bud slowed her 
down to trolling speed. “Newt,” says he 
proudly, “I’ve got the best little old gas 
engine there is on this lake. She never 
misses a kick—jest jogs along like this 
all day long, but, of course,” he goes on, 
“there ain’t much about a gas engine I 
don’t know—when anything goes wrong 
there’s a lot in knowin’ what to do. Why, 
Newt, I’ve had this engine all apart and 
know every screw and nut in her.” “Didn’t 
have a peck of wheels and things left 
over,” says I, “when you got her together 
again ?” “The trouble with most guys,” 
says Bud, ignoring my remark, “is they’re 
not natural born mechanics like I am.” 
“Well,” says I very sarcastic, “that’s no 
reason why you should be so dawg-gawned 
modest about it.” 
Then Bud headed “Lizzie ” up lake and 
we put out our trolls. I had to admit 
that this was luxurious fishing—we had 
nothing to do but sit there and wait for a 
strike while the faithful little engine did 
all the work. As we slid along Bud con¬ 
tinued to brag about his craft until I got 
sick and tired listening to him. 
S ABLE LAKE is eight miles long and 
three wide at its greatest breadth, so 
you will understand that a stiff wind 
on this expanse of water kicks up a heavy 
sea. Now, however, there was not a whis¬ 
per of a breeze—the surface was as flat 
and glassy as a mirror—and every particle 
of ice had disappeared. 
I had just knocked out my pipe and was 
filling it again when, bing!—something 
struck my lure a hundred feet or more be¬ 
hind the boat! My pipe fell out of my 
mouth as I set the hooks. “Good boy!” 
yells Bud, shutting off the power and begin¬ 
ning to reel his line in out of the way. My 
reel screeched in high “C” as yard after 
yard of silk left the spool. Then a fine 
salmon summersaulted into the sunlight 
behind us and struck the water with a 
mighty splash. “He’s a peach !—five pound¬ 
er anyhow!” yelps Bud. Then the battle 
was on in earnest. It was give and take 
We sadly sat in midlake adrift, helpless 
and foodless with night approaching 
for 10 minutes. Once the fish skated on 
the surface and made the spray fly. Then 
he turned and came straight for us—I had 
to reel like mad to keep him from getting 
a slack line. But near the boat he bored 
down deep and began to slat and jerk. 
I F a salmon could only know how nervous 
that makes me I don’t think he would 
do it—at every yank it seems the hook 
must tear loose. Finally he stopped that 
stuff and simply sulked like a log. Foot by 
foot I pumped him up until I could see 
him in the crystal depths standing on his 
head and fanning his broad tail as he bored 
downward. The little bubbles which came 
from his gills told me he was a pretty 
tired fish. “Ready to net?” asks Bud. 
“He’s probably got another flurry up his 
sleeve,” says I, “but get the net ready and 
if you have a chance scoop him.” “Whuh- 
whuh-where is the net?” says Bud in a 
trembling voice. “The last I saw of it,” 
groans I, “it was hangin’ on a nail in 
camp.” “You’re a fine sample of a fisher¬ 
man to go fishin’ without a landin’ net!” 
snarls Bud. “Am I expected to come up 
here fishin’ as your guest,” says I, “and 
then act as a special memory to a'bone- 
head? Wot you need is a guardian.” 
Just then the salmon woke up and shot 
into the air within 10 feet of the boat. 
When he went under he took a short run, 
but it lacked pep and I soon retrieved him. 
It took me half an hour to wear him out 
so I could lead him where I wished. Then 
I towed him alongside and Bud leaning 
far over rammed a thumb in his gill and 
a finger in his mouth and hauled the strug¬ 
gling silver prize aboard. 
“It’s wicked to swear like that,” says I 
to Bud as he held down the fish and rapped 
it on the head to make it behave. “You’d 
swear, too,” growls Bud, “if you got a 
fish-hook in your finger!” How much’ll 
he weigh?” says I as he hefted the fish. 
“Four pounds plump,” says Bud. “Now 
then, old scout,” says I, “it’s your turn to 
get the next one and I hope it’ll be an old 
golwholloper.” “I think,” says Bud, “it 
would be a good idea to go back over that 
stretch of water.” 
He stooped over and gave the fly-wheel 
a turn—but nothing happened. He whirled 
it again, but the engine made no response. 
Bud said nothing, but as he bent over the 
wheel his face was red and his lips were 
moving as if he was saying naughty words 
to himself. After working away for five 
minutes he stood up with his hands on his 
hips breathing hard and gazing toward 
shore. “Wot seems to be the matter?” in¬ 
quires I in my most genteel voice. “Do 
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