Even as they sit, stoical and inanimate, forgetful of
unpaid bills, unfinished and never-to-be-finished plans--there comes this
curious thrill. A mouth tugs at the little minnow. The pole jerks
electrically in the hand. Something alive is on the hook. And the
fisherman for an instant recovers his past. He is Ab, fighting with an
evening meal off the coast of Wales, two glacial periods ago. His body
quivers, his muscles set, his eyes flash.
Zip! The line leaps out of the water. Another monster of the deep, whose
conquest is necessary for the survival of the race of man, has been
overcome. There he hangs, writhing on a hook! There he swings toward his
triumphant foe, and the hand of the fisherman on the municipal breakwater,
trembling with mysterious elation, closes about the wet, firm body of an
outraged perch.
* * * * *
A make-believe hunt that now bears the name of sport. Yes, but not always.
Here is one with a red, battered face and a curiously practical air about
him. He is putting his fish in a basket and counting them. Two dozen
perch.
"Want to sell them?"
He shakes his head.
"What are you going to do with them?"
He looks up and grins slowly.
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