“To think of that howling mob at home only twenty minutes away,” I mused, puffing contentedly at my pipe and reveling in the silence.
“To think of what a motor will do!” replied my friend, who was not unaware of my opinion of cars.
I muttered something incoherently, and squirmed a bit at the thought of some of my notions.
The next morning we were up with the sun, and after a hasty bite, put our canoe into the water and set about our main task.
We were both fairly familiar with the haunts of the wily bass. In summer they lie close to the bottom, the laziest of fellows, sucking in the bait, if they notice it at all, in a dreamy fashion, but, once hooked, they show their mettle, and so, when I finally felt a slight strain on my line, I held back until I was sure of my fish. Yes, I had him, and a good big one at that.
There is little or no casting in midsummer, so that I had brought a stouter trolling-rod, and it was just as well. I played that fellow for ten minutes, and when R⸺ finally netted him for me, we sat and looked at each other speechless.
“By gad, he’s a five-pounder!” said my friend excitedly.
“Hum—about four and three quarters,” I replied in a matter-of-fact tone to cover my excitement.
We caught twelve that morning, several weighing two pounds or more,—splendid fishing, the best we had ever had on the pond.