By the time Pat got the gaff in him it was dark, and we homed in on a cottage light beside the pier. Ashore, I checked the weight by torchlight. The needle flickered just below the 23. "Call him 22½," I said. I waded in knee-deep and slid him back into the lake.
Later we sat in Joe Mooney's kitchen in the red light of a lamp hanging on the wall. "It's a shame, now," said Mooney, "that you wouldn't be going out again tomorrow."
"Pat's after geese," I said, "and I've been fishing long enough to know when to stop. You can't improve on the miraculous."
"In Drumshanbo," said Mooney firmly, "the miraculous has always been our specialty."