Bert Wilson in the Rockies

by J. W. Duffield

There was no dissenting voice, and the spinning coin decreed that Tom and Dick should do the trolling, while Bert remained on shore and tried for bass.

With the polished spoons twinkling in the water behind, the canoe shot out to the center of the lake. Bert carefully baited his hook and cast it far out from shore. Then, with the happy optimism of the average fisherman, he settled back and waited for results.

Contrary to the usual experience, those results were not long in coming. Tom was the first to score. The spoon at the end of his line dipped violently, and, hauling it in rapidly, he yanked in a big pickerel. He did not dare to shout, for fear of scaring the wary denizens of the lake, but he held it up for Bert to see, and the latter responded with a wave of the hand in congratulation.

The next instant he had to grab his own rod with both hands, while the cord whistled out over the reel. He had made a "strike," and the frantic plunges at the other end of the line told that he had hooked a fighter. Back and forth he darted, until it seemed as though the slender rod would break under the strain. Bert's fighting blood responded to the challenge, and he played his opponent with all the skill and judgment in which he was a past master. It was fully ten minutes before, carefully shortening his line, he was able to land on the bank a magnificent striped bass.

From that time on, the sport was fast and furious. The lake was full of fish, and it had been visited so rarely that they had not learned the danger of the bait that trailed so temptingly before them. In half an hour they had caught more than they could eat and carry home, and Tom, whose appalling appetite was clamoring for satisfaction, suggested that they wind up and pull for shore. Dick was nothing loath, and the canoe, more heavily loaded than when they had started out, glided shoreward until its nose touched the bank where Bert was standing, surrounded by a host of finny beauties that bore witness to his skill.

They fastened the boat securely and spent a few minutes comparing their catches. Then they gathered a heap of dry brush and burned it until they had a glowing bed of embers. They had no frying pan, but Bert improvised an ingenious skillet of tough oaken twigs, that, held high enough above the fire, promised to broil the fish to a turn.

Tom, who, in accordance with the agreement, had nothing to do, stretched himself out luxuriously and "bossed the job."

"See that you don't burn the fish, my man," he said to Bert, affecting a languid drawl. "And you, my good fellow," he added, turning to Dick, "be sure and clean them thoroughly."

He dodged just in time to avoid a fish head that Dick threw at him. It whizzed by his ear, and his quick duck detracted somewhat from his dignity.

"The growing insolence of the lower classes," he muttered, regaining his equilibrium. "You're fired," he roared, glaring at Dick.