The Ill-Fated Voyage of the Amateur Fishermen

A pair of Seattle ‘bloods’ who pride themselves on being adepts in all the things in which ‘the boys’ boast—commensurate horsemanship, and who are even boasting of being the men of the first magnitude—planned a grand outing on the Sound on Saturday. They chartered a skiff, supplied themselves with some of the ‘still wine of life,’ spoon hooks and tackle, and sallied forth on Saturday afternoon for the fishing grounds. We expected to see the market glutted with salmon, and we really felt sorry for the poor fish. An extraordinary oarsman took charge of the wooden craft, and the craft shot out into the bay with the doughty crew, that boasted of breasts that knew no fear. After getting out a short distance, one of the solons declared that he could do more rowing in five minutes than the one at the oars could in a week, and so he was just going to prove it. He was a perfect Apollo, and he was bound to demonstrate to all the others the superior quality of his muscles. An argument followed, and when our hero jumped up to ‘take the floor,’ he stepped out of the timbers in the bottom of the skiff and put his huge foot through the planking. They were all terror-stricken instanter. One grabbed a looking glass, another began to scoop up the water with his hat, and a third to vociferate. Finally, like the man who threw his anchor and prayed, they concluded to make the best of it. So while one worked to keep the craft afloat, the others paddled their way back to shore, with the tide up to their ankles. They left the craft out in the bay.