gunning, and left his sporting traps at home. He only went down for a
few days' fishing, and was prepared to take large numbers of bluefish.
Armed with a stout line and squid, he invited us over to see him do
it. The ocean was rough, and came rolling up in long heavy swells; the
fish were far out at sea. After getting his line arranged to his
satisfaction, he took firm hold of it a few feet above the squid; we
all looked admiringly on. By a series of dexterous gyrations about his
head he sent it flying a hundred feet out into the water--it was
beautifully done. Skillfully he hauled it in, hand over hand. The
squid followed, as bright and shining as when he had cast it out, but
no fish. He made ready again, and with that nonchalant air of a man
who feels perfectly sure that he can do just what he wants to, he gave
it that preparatory whirling motion again, and away it went.

The best efforts will fail sometimes, and the most skillful are often
doomed to disappointment--it was so in this case. The hook did not go
for a blue fish, but fastened itself in the leg of a too confiding dog
that stood looking curiously on, just as those canine friends of man
so often do. The misguided animal went howling away, and had to be
captured and the hook extracted.

[Illustration: A QUEER FISH.]

He felt sure he could do it, however, and he tried it again, with as
much preparation as before, and twice the determination; he missed the
sea altogether, and the barbed instrument buried itself into that
portion of male wearing apparel that comes in contact with the chair,
when one indulges in that agreeable and refreshing posture of sitting
down: they will need repairing.