"Holy smoke," he cried. "There's a million of them!"
"They won't take anything but a white darter," I told him, partly sympathetic, but mainly full of thrill at the wonder of this place in a cloudy dawn. The fish now seemed an incidental aspect, mere reason for being here.
"I've got a darter up in the car," he said piteously.
I left him there, forlornly proving to himself the point about the white darter. The fish moved out as the daylight rose, and there on the sand the man leaned into casts long, picturesque and futile, reaching after the departing fish. Now the trolling boats, with running lights still on, began to appear recklessly close to the rocks. They went back and forth through the school of fish without catching any.
I climbed the slope up to the car and awakened Claire to take my picture with the catch.
"You ought to shave first," she said. "You haven't shaved since we got here five days ago."
"Hell no, don't shave," said a burly voice from the next station wagon. "The most important part of the picture is your old gray beard, so people don't think you come out here and catch a striped bass right away like you would a flounder."