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Authors: Lilian Jackson Braun
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moving the rod up and down."
"And then what?"
"When you get a bite, you'll know it. Reel it in." The Minnie K moved through the placid lake with reluctance. Occasionally the engine died for sheer lack of purpose and started again unwillingly. For an hour Qwilleran waved the fishing rod up and down in a trance induced by the throbbing of the engine and the sense of isolation. The troller was in a tight little world of its own, surrounded by a fog that canceled out everything else. There was no breeze, not even a splash of water against the hull—just the hollow putt-putt of the engine and the distant moan of a foghorn.
Whatley had reeled in his line and, after taking a few swigs from a flask, fell asleep in his canvas chair. His wife never looked up from her book.
Qwilleran was wondering where they were—and why he was there—when the engine stopped with an explosive cough, and the two boys, muttering syllables, jumped down into the hold. The silence became absolute, and the boat was motionless on the glassy lake. It was then that Qwilleran heard voices drifting across the water—men's voices, too far away to be distinguishable. He rested the rod on the railing and listened. The voices were coming closer, arguing, getting louder. There were shouts of anger followed by unintelligible torrents of verbal abuse, then a sharp crack like splitting wood. . . grunts. . . sounds of lunging. . . a heavy thump. A few seconds later Qwilleran heard a mighty splash and a light patter of spray on the water's surface.
After that, all was quiet except for a succession of ripples that crossed the surface of the lake and lapped against the Minnie K. The fog closed in like cotton bat- ting, and the water turned to milk.
The crew had their heads bent over the contraption that passed for an engine. Whatley slept on, and his wife also dozed. Wonderingly Qwilleran resumed the senseless motion of the fishing rod, up and down, up and down, in exaggerated arcs. He had lost all sense of time and his watch had been left at home because of his itching wrists.
Thirty minutes passed, or an hour, and then there was a pull on the line, sending vibrations down the rod and into his arms. He shouted!
Whatley waked with a start. "Reel it in! Reel it in!" At that magic moment, with the roots of his hair tingling, Qwilleran realized the thrill of deep-sea fishing. "Feels like a whale!"
"Not so fast! Keep it steady! Don't stop!" Whatley was gasping for breath, and so was Qwilleran. His hands were shaking. The copper line was endless.
Everyone was watching. The young skipper was leaning over the rail. "Gaff!" he yelled, and the other boy threw him a long-handled iron hook.
"Gotta be fifty pounds!" Qwilleran shouted, straining to reel in the last few yards.
He could feel the final surge as the monster rose through the water. "I've got him! I've got him!"
The huge shape had barely surfaced when he lost his grip on the reel.
"Grab it!" cried Whatley, but the reel was spinning wildly. As it began to slow, the skipper pulled pliers from his pocket and cut the line.
"No good," he said. "No good."
"Whaddaya mean?" Whatley screamed at him. "That fish was thirty pounds (gasp) if it was an ounce!"
"No good," the skipper said. He swung himself up to the wheelhouse; the younger boy dropped into the hold, and the engine started.
"This whole deal is a fraud!" Whatley protested. His wife looked up from her book and yawned.
"I don't know about you people," Qwilleran said, "But I'm ready to call it a day."
The boat picked up speed and headed for what he hoped would be dry land. On the return voyage he slumped in the canvas chair, engrossed in his own thoughts. Whatley had another swig and dozed off.
Qwilleran was no fisherman, but he had seen films of the sport, and this experience was hardly typical. His catch didn't fight like a fish; when it broke the surface it didn't splash like a fish; and it certainly didn't look like a fish.
Back in Mooseville he
"And then what?"
"When you get a bite, you'll know it. Reel it in." The Minnie K moved through the placid lake with reluctance. Occasionally the engine died for sheer lack of purpose and started again unwillingly. For an hour Qwilleran waved the fishing rod up and down in a trance induced by the throbbing of the engine and the sense of isolation. The troller was in a tight little world of its own, surrounded by a fog that canceled out everything else. There was no breeze, not even a splash of water against the hull—just the hollow putt-putt of the engine and the distant moan of a foghorn.
Whatley had reeled in his line and, after taking a few swigs from a flask, fell asleep in his canvas chair. His wife never looked up from her book.
Qwilleran was wondering where they were—and why he was there—when the engine stopped with an explosive cough, and the two boys, muttering syllables, jumped down into the hold. The silence became absolute, and the boat was motionless on the glassy lake. It was then that Qwilleran heard voices drifting across the water—men's voices, too far away to be distinguishable. He rested the rod on the railing and listened. The voices were coming closer, arguing, getting louder. There were shouts of anger followed by unintelligible torrents of verbal abuse, then a sharp crack like splitting wood. . . grunts. . . sounds of lunging. . . a heavy thump. A few seconds later Qwilleran heard a mighty splash and a light patter of spray on the water's surface.
After that, all was quiet except for a succession of ripples that crossed the surface of the lake and lapped against the Minnie K. The fog closed in like cotton bat- ting, and the water turned to milk.
The crew had their heads bent over the contraption that passed for an engine. Whatley slept on, and his wife also dozed. Wonderingly Qwilleran resumed the senseless motion of the fishing rod, up and down, up and down, in exaggerated arcs. He had lost all sense of time and his watch had been left at home because of his itching wrists.
Thirty minutes passed, or an hour, and then there was a pull on the line, sending vibrations down the rod and into his arms. He shouted!
Whatley waked with a start. "Reel it in! Reel it in!" At that magic moment, with the roots of his hair tingling, Qwilleran realized the thrill of deep-sea fishing. "Feels like a whale!"
"Not so fast! Keep it steady! Don't stop!" Whatley was gasping for breath, and so was Qwilleran. His hands were shaking. The copper line was endless.
Everyone was watching. The young skipper was leaning over the rail. "Gaff!" he yelled, and the other boy threw him a long-handled iron hook.
"Gotta be fifty pounds!" Qwilleran shouted, straining to reel in the last few yards.
He could feel the final surge as the monster rose through the water. "I've got him! I've got him!"
The huge shape had barely surfaced when he lost his grip on the reel.
"Grab it!" cried Whatley, but the reel was spinning wildly. As it began to slow, the skipper pulled pliers from his pocket and cut the line.
"No good," he said. "No good."
"Whaddaya mean?" Whatley screamed at him. "That fish was thirty pounds (gasp) if it was an ounce!"
"No good," the skipper said. He swung himself up to the wheelhouse; the younger boy dropped into the hold, and the engine started.
"This whole deal is a fraud!" Whatley protested. His wife looked up from her book and yawned.
"I don't know about you people," Qwilleran said, "But I'm ready to call it a day."
The boat picked up speed and headed for what he hoped would be dry land. On the return voyage he slumped in the canvas chair, engrossed in his own thoughts. Whatley had another swig and dozed off.
Qwilleran was no fisherman, but he had seen films of the sport, and this experience was hardly typical. His catch didn't fight like a fish; when it broke the surface it didn't splash like a fish; and it certainly didn't look like a fish.
Back in Mooseville he
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