orous up-and-down hop,
while the tense line sang in the gentle autumn breeze.

"Eph Todd!" gasped Fisherman Jones, "this is the whoppingest old bass
I ever hooked onto yet. Beeswax, how he does pull!" And with the words
Fisherman Jones went backward over the log, waving the pole and a pair
of stiff legs in air. The turkey had suddenly slackened the line.

"Give him the butt! Give him the butt!" roared Eph, rushing up. Even
where he lay the fisherman blood in Fisherman Jones responded to this
stirring appeal, and as the rod bent in a tense half circle a race
began such as no elderly fisherman was ever the centre of before.

Round and round went Miltiades, with the white grub in his crop, and
the line above it gripped tightly in his strong beak; and round and
round went Eph Todd, his outstretched arms waving like the turkey's
wings, and his big boots denting the soft pasture turf with the vigour
of his gallop. In the centre Fisherman Jones, too nearsighted to see
what he had hooked, had risen on one knee, and revolved with the
coursing bird, his soul wrapped in one idea: to keep the butt of his
rod aimed at the whirling game.

"Hang to him! Reel him in! We'll get him!" shouted Eph; and, with the
word, he caught his toe and vanished into the prickly depths of the
savin bush, just as the heaven-born inventor came over the hill. It
would be interesting to know just what scheme the heaven-born inventor
would have put in motion for the capture of Miltiades, but just then
he stepped into one of his own extraordinary traps, set for the
turkey of course, and, with one foot held fast, began to flounder
about with cries of rage and dismay.

This brought Eph's head above the fringe of savin bush again, and now
he beheld a wonderful sight. Fisherman Jones was again on his feet,
staring in wild surprise at Miltiades, whom he sighted for the first
time, within ten feet of him. There was no pressure on the reel, and
Miltiades was swallowing the line in big gulps, evidently determined
to have not only the white grub, but all that went with it.

Fisherman Jones's cry of dismay was almost as bitter as that of the
heaven-born inventor, who still writhed in his own trap.

"Oh, Eph! Eph!" he whimpered, "he's eating up my tackle! He's eating
up my tackle!"

"Never mind!" shouted Eph. "Don't be afraid! I reckon he'll stop when
he gets to the pole!"

Those of us who knew Miltiades at his best have doubts as to this,
but, fortunately,