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"Huh!" says I, taking a glance. "Señora Concita Maria y Polanio. All of that, eh? Must be some whale of a female?" "Whale is near it," says Vincent. "You ought to see her." "The worst of it is," says I, "I gotta see her." He's no exaggerator, Vincent. This female party that I finds bulgin' Old Hickory's swing desk chair has got any Jonah fish I ever saw pictured out lookin' like a pickerel.
He knew the places where the pickerel hid; where the water was swift, or shallow, or choked with weeds, and where to leave the shore and make a detour through the grain fields past these places.
Three days were used in getting down the lake, during which time but one fish, a pickerel, was caught, where they had expected to find an abundance. At the foot of the lake, tracks were seen, which it was thought might be those of hunters.
Farwell had his bad hours often, but he rarely permitted himself companionship at such times, but to-day, after his noon meal, he had been unable to keep away from the Lodge. "Fall's setting in early," Mrs. McAdam went on; "pickerel come; whitefish go. Beasts and fish and birds ken a lot, Mr. Farwell." "They certainly do. The more you live with dumb creatures, the more you are impressed with that.
But no fish can shake out a hook well sunken in mouth or gills, though two-thirds of the barb be filed away. For mascalonge or pickerel I invariably use wire snells made as follows: Lay off four or more strands of fine brass wire 13 inches long; turn one end of the wires smoothly over a No. 1 iron wire and work the ends in between the strands below.
They do not know at this moment whether the next turn of Fortune's reel will bring up a perch or a pickerel, a sunfish or a black bass. It may be a hideous catfish or a squirming eel, or it may be a lake-trout, the grand prize in the Lake George lottery.
Then, on the river itself, even at that early hour, was to be seen, fastened to the long stake driven into its bed, or secured by the rude anchor of stone appended to a cable of twisted bark, the light canoe or clumsy periagua of the peasant fisherman, who, ever and anon, drew up from its deep bosom the shoal-loving pickerel or pike, or white or black bass, or whatever other tenant of these waters might chance to affix itself to the traitorous hook.
"And she do say," put in Jake Brewer, grasping a large pickerel and thrusting his blade into its quivering body after removing the scales, "that it hurts her insides to see the critters wriggle under the knife. She air that bad too." Ben Letts scratched his head tentatively.
One might, if he were a lucky and persevering fisherman, take a trout in the swift waters of the brook; but for the pickerel, theirs was not the joy of such exertion. In the dark, silent places along Mill stream, where never a ripple disturbed their seclusion, you might see one, now and then, lying motionless in the shadow of an overhanging branch, at the surface of the water, as though asleep.
"Let's see your hook," Whitey said, as another pickerel was pulled almost to shore, and then flopped back into its native element. When Injun displayed the hook, Whitey saw that it was one of the little ones they had used in fastening the tick-tack to Wong's window. "Why, this is too small for pickerel," exclaimed Whitey. "It's for perch. You ought to have a bigger one."
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