“Getum’’ Gets ’em 
Because GETUM tackle is made so lifelike. Made 
strong—made to get ’em - 
in any water, weather, 
time, or place. 
$3.75 buys the GETUM ROD AND REEL. Made to 
fit the pocket. Hollow Metal Handle serves as case 
for three-spring tempered steel joints with Single 
Action Detachable Aluminum Reel. Great for cast- 
ing. Weight only 10 ozs. 
Rod only with reel seat for multiplier 
DEWEY’S FEATHER GETUM, travels lifelike any- 
where, deep, medium or shallow thru weeds and gets 
your fish—NOT-. WEEDS. 
LIST OF COLORS 
No. 20—Red body, red fins, red-white tail. 
No. 30—Red body, yellow fins, white tail. 
No. 50—White body, red fins, white tail. 
No. 60—White body, yellow fins, white tail. 
No. 110—Black body, red fins, mottled tail. 
No. 120—Black body, yellow fins, orange tail. 
7 No. 3 
No. 4—34 0Z,,.40- 
Put a couple in your kit, 
DEWEY’S 
PORKY-GETUM is a real 
wiggler, with metal body 
and removable hooks. When you buy 
Porky—you buy fish. 
No. I1—% No. 3—% oz 
No. 2—'!/2 0z No. 4—% 0z 
COLORS: Red, White, 
Black, Yellow. 
Weight 
34 OZ. 
DEWEY’S FLOATER-GETUM floating 
metal sig-zags, wabbles—gets fish when 
other lures fail. Worth their weight in 
gold. We get 75c. 
LIST OF COLORS 
. 24—White body, red head. 
No. 34—Aluminum body, red head. 
Yo. 44—Yellow body, red head. 
No. 54—Yellow body, green head. 
OUTING MFG. CO. 
as ~~ Manufacturers of Outdoor 
Equipment 
~) DEPT. Z 
ELKHART, INDIANA 
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Mosquito, Moose and Mas- 
calonge 
(Continued from page 397) 
was out in front of the beach sulking 
and came in grudgingly to a steady 
pull—a last sliding rush with his head 
well up and he came within reach. The 
forefinger under a gill and the thumb 
over the back gave me the “ad” and a 
knife through the backbone at the 
collar settled the argument. 
DIDN’T glory over him long, but in- 
stead scaled, slit, cleaned and cut 
him into steaks. You fishermen will 
agree with me that fish should be clean- 
ed fresh—not only to insure fresh fish 
but to save work. Yes, I’m lazy—let 
a fish dry up and one might as well 
skin him-—let him soak and he turns 
my stomach. But—fresh, flapping, col- 
ors bright and glistening —“‘it’s a 
| pleasure.” 
And “for mercy’s sake” kill your 
fish. JI feel that a fish that has enough 
nerve to fight for his life deserves the 
honor of “dying with his boots on”’— 
rather than to flop and struggle till he 
passes out. Knocking his head against 
a rock or on the gunwale will do the 
job, or hold him steady and press the 
knife firmly down through the flesh—a 
steady pressure down through the back- 
bone and he straightens out limp. 
But here’s the point—we were in one 
fish dinner—but out one fishing outfit. 
So I trotted over to the “Company 
Store” and told my hard luck story to 
Carter, the boss of Kipawa’s seventeen 
roughneck population. He was also 
manager of the Co. store which seem- 
ed to have everything from mackinaw 
shirts, socks and chocolate drops to 
pins and potatoes. 
“Glad you broke it,” he said cheer- 
fully—“save you a lot o’ trouble. Here’s 
what we use in this country.” 
He picked up an inch thick stick of 
wood upon which was wound a.coil of 
heavy green silk mixture line—nearly 
as heavy as a curtain string. 
“That’s what you boys want to use 
when you’re traveling—you can’t break 
| that—don’t take up a lot of room— 
don’t get in the way on a po’tage—and 
it gets ’em quick. Take it along with 
| you—you’ll want a bite o’ fish now ’nd 
_then. 
(they looked like grappling irons to 
And here’s a couple o’ hooks 
me)—rig ’em up on a gang and string 
a strip o’ pike belly on ’em.” 
On the end of the “rope” was a 
clumsy looking nickel plated brass 
spoon that was worn at the edges, 
showing the brass. A heavy steel leader 
joined it with a swivel to the green 
line. 
We were lucky—we kept the spinner 
for nearly two weeks—then a moment’s 
carelessness—the line came in limp and 
It will identify you. 
the spinner rode away in the teeth of 
a “muskie.” We rigged up another 
from two of Carter’s “grappling hooks” 
—a “flash” cut with a knife from a 
baking powder can and a leader from 
the spool of copper wire which we 
carried to repair broken paddles. It 
wasn’t as smooth a looking job as 
those in a showcase, but the muskies 
didn’t seem to mind the change. : 
That was the “outfit” that Bill threw 
into the canoe as he started up stream. 
“Keep an eye on that stew,” he called 
back a tardy warning—for the stew 
had already boiled over to drench the 
too enthusiastic fire into temporary 
submission. 
The sun was sinking slowly, painting 
the sky in changing splendor of red and 
gold. Strangely the mosquitoes had not 
appeared at their customary hour—the 
most peaceful camp the trip had yet 
given us. Everybody was silent watch- 
ing the sunset and slowly doing the 
little duties of camp. 
Then, far up the river we heard 
Bill’s “Waahoo” faintly carrying down 
the darkening bends of the river— 
then ‘Whee! — Whee!” vague, indis- 
tinct calls from time to time that left 
to the imagination the picture of the 
fight of the mascalonge. 
Supper was ready when Bill pulled 
silently into camp and threw the small 
hand axe into a log. 
“Where is he?” asked Cleve. 
Bill took a pan and filled it from the 
big pot of stew. 
“Dja leave him in the boat?” Doc 
asked, as he tossed his empty pan to 
Bill to fill while he “was dishin’.” 
Bill slopped it full and passed it back. 
“Say! Snap out of it!” Schmidty 
yapped. “Did he hypnotize you?” 
“Yea!” Bill murmured—“Say!” he 
looked up from his pan, “Do I look 
dizzy?” 
“You sure do,’ Schmidty agreed, 
puffing at his corn cob. 
Bill poured out a cup of coffee and 
split his wedge of cake. 
“Did he bite you?” urged Cleve. 
“No,” Bill replied slowly, “he sur- 
rounded me.” 
“Surrounded you? Huh!” grunted 
Schmidty. “Bounce out of it, Boy.” He 
pulled his blanket up around his ears. 
“You birds can stay up all night if you 
want to—lI’m going to sleep.” 
Bill did not seem to hear him. The 
fire had burned down to a bed of bright 
coals against a big “holding log” and 
two “back logs.” A _ single wisp of 
smoke curled up from the back logs and 
a stick, burning through, snapped and 
sent up a shower of tiny sparks. 
Bill set his coffee down and looked 
over at me. “Footy,” he said slowly. 
I looked at the fire and listened to 
Bill. Schmidty cautiously uncovered 
an ear. 
Page 426 
