The Topeka state journal. [volume] (Topeka, Kansas) 1892-1980, 1918-04-20

We saw him no more until the next
morning.
By some unknown accepted decree,
Sunday was chosen as the big day to
exemplify the adage that fishing is
a worm at one end and a fool at the
other"
Word came down the creek to our
comfortable hotel that everything
was ready. The veteran Santa Fe
agent in Erie who has been there ever
since the station was built thirty odd
years ago agreed with the hoary
deputy sheriff. who sat with the cat
among the geraniums in the hotel win
dow. that the day was ideal.
Cloudy-yes.
Cold-yes
Rainy-yes.
Wind from the east-yes.
Only worms for bait-yes.
But it was agreed-plotted by the
townsmen, l firmly believe-that this
party from Topeka, clothed in the
most up-to-date sporting garments
that the magazines advertise and pos
sessing the fanciest of reels, lines and
poles should be northumberland de-
ceived.
We were a likely and pitiful bunch
to lure. Erie pedestrians turned to
look at us as we sped north on Main
street to the sparkling shadows of
Crandall creek. Many Methodist
and Presbyterian must have chuckled
aloud in church that morning as the
picture of those innocent capital city
boobs flashed across his mind.
On we sped, despite slippery treach-
erous roads. Newspapers had been
spread over the floor of the car that
the fish might not ruin the caEpets. A
huge canvas. used to cover the ma
wished to put out the S. r. o. sign.
Bill Wikida1 even prepared for his
homeward baggage by providing him
self with an immense grain sack filled
with green grass.
THE fish will live for days in
bundle like this" he exclaimed haugh
tily.
The mayor had thrown aside his
Gloomy Gus attire and adapted Hap
Ply Hooligan spirit with can of worms
on his headpiece. He told us of the
days when he walked out this road
81 to the Kansas City Times that he
might buy a couple of boots. Harry
Martin toyed playfully with his newly
oiled reel and Roy Crawford skipped
his car over the landscape in CHEZ
Hanlon style.
Pipes were packed with tobacco for
the event and wagers were made for
the first catch.
We arrived. We crossed a rafting
tin bridge and the ripping water be-
We were met by a delegation of far
mer lads who led our restless legs
down the stream a quarter of mile
or was it thirty rods? The farmer
always speaks in terms of rods. L
don't know. 1 wouldn't know a rod if
1 met it face to face-not even a fish
ing rod would I recognize now.
The leader waved his arms in true
political style.
There you are" he informed u.s.
The best place on the crick. Now go
to it,
There was a fight over the worm
can. The squirming, juicy sirens
were dumped on tie ground and five
frantic hands with twenty-five equally
delirious fingers violently grabbed for
the bait. The sun broke thru a cloud
for a few seconds and a whoop of de-
light went up from everyone.
We spread out along the banks.
Almost simultaneously five hooks
dropped into the stream.
The carnage was on.
Directly across the creek from me
was Roy Crawford. 1 didn't notice
him at first because I expected any
moment to see my cork disappear and
find a spinning reel on my hands.
couldn't waste any time on the
scenery. Finally, after half hour of
concentration, during which time,
only the wind ripples moved its ma
jestic ride, I raised my eyes. There
was Roy. He was standing erect. He
held his pole out in front of him al
lowing not an inch of slack line to
disturb the water and the inha bitants
thereof.
His pose was perfect. He wasn't
moving a muscle. If dotted line had
been drawn along the stretch of vi
sion from his eyes to his cork, the line
never would have swerved an inch.
1t would have been geometrically per-
feet. I sneaked away to another al
Turing depth beneath a tree trunk. 1
returned and Roy was still there
standing like Lincoln in his Gettys-
burg address. Again I wandered
along the banks and once more I re-