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There we pitched camp, and, as the flies lacked, built a friendship-fire about which to forgather when the day was done. Dick still vocally regretted the muscallunge told him of my big bear. One day, late in the summer, I was engaged in packing some supplies along an old fur trail north of Lake Superior.
"Kee-gons?" we inquired as to the fishing in the lake. "Ah-hah," he assented. We drifted by each other without further speech. When the decent distance of etiquette separated us we resumed our paddles. I produced a young cable terminated by a tremendous spoon and a solid brass snell as thick as a telegraph wire. We had laid in this formidable implement in hopes of a big muscallunge.
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