Those are not our words as the authors of this three-part story for Bassmaster Magazine. Those are the words of James A. Henshall, and they are the very first words in the very first chapter of his legendary Book of the Black Bass, first published in 1881. 

A lot of science has happened since then, and the Micropterus genus (black bass) has been the focus of a fair amount of it. But in recent years, all that attention has created a confusing and perhaps untenable scenario for largemouth bass anglers in pursuit of America’s, and the world’s, most popular gamefish. 

To get a picture of what’s happening now, it helps to look back at where we’ve been … way back. 

Shortly after the American War of Independence, French naturalists combed North America, attempting to catalogue new species of fish based on their physical appearance. These naturalists often unknowingly worked with what Henshall described as “uncertain and inaccurate” material. As communication at that time was obviously slow, two scientists could work independently on the same thing for years and never know it. The black bass we know and love were first scientifically described in this manner in the early 19th century. 

Poor materials and communication led to many black bass being given different scientific names even though they were actually the same species. In modern science, it’s really important that a species gets one name to avoid confusion. Back then, the largemouth bass could be described as Labre salmoides (“trout-like”), Huro nigricans (“black huron”) and Micropterus floridanus among many others. To make matters worse, damaged samples could lead the largemouth bass to be confused with a different black bass species entirely. Hindsight being 20/20, it was a mess, and if you really want to make your head spin, you should check out the first two chapters of Henshall’s book. 

Ultimately, Henshall drew a line in the sand and pegged largemouth bass as what we have known as Micropterus salmoides. A separate strain of largemouth known as the Florida bass (Micropterus salmoides floridanus) was described in the 1940s by Bailey and Hubbs, and that’s where things have sat … until now. 

Splitters And Lumpers 

If you think live, forward-facing sonar is a technological leap in the world of fish and fishing, know that DNA (deoxyribonucleic acid) testing has been at least as impactful in the world of taxonomy and conservation. DNA is the molecule that carries genetic information within an organism. Taxonomy is the science of classification. 

As DNA technology has advanced, our ability to identify small but perhaps vitally important differences in animals has grown by leaps and bounds. A fish in one river may not be discernibly different from a visually identical fish in another river just a few miles away. In fact, it may be so different that scientists deem them worthy of special classification or meriting a new species designation. 

Why? Well, scientific advancements allow us to better understand the differences between groups of fish and apply that knowledge to management practices. In the case of conservation genetics, this “splitting” helps to protect unique populations. Think of Florida bass in Florida. Without genetic knowledge and good management practices, we could dilute or otherwise undermine a population generally recognized as having the best potential for trophy size. 

We’ll call the conservation scientists who pursue such taxonomic differences “splitters.” On the other side of the aisle are the “lumpers,” who see little or no need to recognize differences in fish that cannot be seen with the naked eye. 

And that’s the battleground in a nutshell. 

The American Fisheries Society 

The American Fisheries Society (AFS) was created in 1870 and is dedicated to advancing science and protecting fisheries resources. It has more than 8,000 members, mostly fisheries managers, biologists, professors and ecologists, and AFS is a driving force behind the recognition and naming of fish species not only in the United States, but across the globe. 

In 2023, AFS published the eighth edition of Common and Scientific Names of Fishes from the United States, Canada, and Mexico. For the first time, “largemouth bass” (formerly “Northern bass” or M. salmoides) and “Florida bass” (formerly M.s. floridanus) are listed as separate species. The new designation is based on a 2022 Yale University paper on black bass that determined new genetic standards and ranges for black bass species. This included extending the range of Florida bass to areas in south Georgia and the coastal Carolinas. Everywhere else, except for a thin strip through north Georgia and the inlands of the Carolinas, bass populations are largemouth. That thin strip in the middle is a zone of natural hybridization or mixing of Florida and largemouth genes (keep that in the back of your head). 

With new species come new names. To figure that out, AFS went back to some of the earliest names. Florida bass are now known as M. salmoides, which means a new name is needed for everything else. The Northern largemouth is now M. nigricans. Those French naturalists got the naming honors after all! 

The Record Books 

Since the late 1970s, the International Game Fish Association (IGFA) has been the primary oracle for freshwater fishing records. The IGFA took over the work of Field & Stream magazine, primarily conducted through its annual fishing contest, which ran from 1911 through 1977. 

To its credit, the IGFA is a steward of sportfishing with a long history of support and involvement within the industry. The IGFA also works to stay on top of many scientific advancements that are driven by AFS. This includes conservation initiatives based on recognizing new species. 

Sometimes the new distinctions are not a problem. But we’re talking about the largemouth bass here — the most important sportfish in the world. 

Earlier this year, the IGFA announced it would follow the recommendations laid out by the 2022 Yale paper and make adjustments to records for black bass. Specifically, the Florida bass and the largemouth bass would become two categories, with the largemouth bass maintaining the 22-pound, 4-ounce all-tackle world record. This has left the Florida bass open for a world-record chase. Oh, and any new competitors for the all-tackle world record must be genetically certified. 

This poses all sorts of questions: What of the world records? The largemouth bass — the most sought-after gamefish in the world — is now split. The largemouth bass (M. nigricans) record — perhaps counterintuitively — belongs to George Perry and Manabu Kurita, just as the old largemouth record did. 

A new Florida bass world record has been certified by IGFA out of Texas at just 15 pounds, 13 ounces. Does anyone believe that should be the standard bearer? 

And what of the hybrids? Currently, IGFA does not recognize a world-record bass that is neither a “pure” Florida nor a “pure” largemouth, even though such hybrids occur naturally. 

Can you positively identify Micropterus salmoides and Micropterus nigricans? What about a hybrid of the two? Unless you have access to DNA testing facilities, the answer is a hard no. 

And who’s capable of conducting those tests? What standards should be used — IGFA standards, state standards, university standards, private lab standards? Who will pay for this testing? Will state record-keeping organizations line up behind AFS or IGFA in their species classifications? 

If an angler — especially an avid, experienced angler — cannot tell the difference between two fish without a DNA test, should there be separate records for those species? 

Should the records serve scientists or anglers? The splitters are carrying the day with conservation, but shouldn’t the lumpers prevail when it comes to the records? 

And what if — stay with us here! — what if we had DNA from Kurita’s 22-5 bass out of Japan in 2009 that proves his giant had Florida genes? What might that do to the apple cart? 

The mind boggles. 

A Cautionary Tale: Florida’s World-Record Smallmouth 

What happens when the science gets so confusing that even scientists are confused? Welcome to the cautionary tale of Florida’s world-record smallmouth bass. 

That’s right … Florida. 

Smallmouth bass are not native to Florida, but they were stocked in the Sunshine State several times beginning in 1908. So, when lunker “brown bass” started popping up, few were surprised. 

By the 1930s, some of these fish weighed in the teens, and in 1932, a Pennsylvania angler named Walter Harden held the world record at 14 pounds. He even wrote about his prowess at catching big smallmouth in How to Catch World’s-Record Bass. 

Of course, the problem was that there were no actual smallmouth bass in Florida. None of the stocked fish survived or propagated in the tropical climate, and the “smallmouth” were actually largemouth that met the scientific parameters that defined the smallmouth bass at that time (i.e., a certain range of dorsal spines and lateral line scales). Since smallmouth and Florida bass occasionally overlapped in those particulars, honest scientists and anglers misidentified fish that any modern angler would have spotted a mile away. 

It took 17 years after Harden’s record “smallmouth” before all that got cleared up. 

Top 10 LMB (according to Bassmaster records) 

1. Weight: 22.3108 Angler: Manabu Kurita Date: 07/02/2009 Location: Lake Biwa, Japan 

2. Weight: 22.2500 Angler: George Perry Date: 06/02/1932 Location: Montgomery Lake, GA 

3. Weight: 22.0100 Angler: Robert Crupi Date: 03/12/1991 Location: Lake Castaic, CA 

4. Weight: 21.7500 Angler: Michael Arujo Date: 03/05/1991 Location: Lake Castaic, CA 

5. Weight: 21.6875 Angler: Jed Dickerson Date: 05/31/2003 Location: Lake Dixon, CA 

6. Weight: 21.2000 Angler: Raymond Easley Date: 03/04/1980 Location: Lake Casitas, CA 

7. Weight: 21.0100 Angler: Robert Crupi Date: 03/09/1990 Location: Lake Castaic, CA 

8. Weight: 20.9375 Angler: David Zimmerlee Date: 06/23/1973 Location: Lake Miramar, CA 

9. Weight: 20.8600 Angler: Leo Torres Date: 02/04/1990 Location: Lake Castaic, CA 

10. Weight: 20.2500 Angler: Gene Dupras Date: 05/30/1985 Location: Lake Hodges, CA 

From the looks of things, it had been a right good tournament  day for the boys of the  Swamp Gas Corners  Bass Club. They was all gathered at the weighin’-in scales, anxiously awaitin’ the rest of the members to come in and plop their bigmouth catches in the basket. Dead-Eye Dingle, our tournament director and vice- president-in-charge of gettin’ brew for after-the-weigh-in celebrations, shifted his greasy ceegar aroun’ in his mouth as Mouse Mozzarella approached the scales totin’ a mighty fine string. 

“Attaboy, Mouse!” someone called out as the miniature Italian BASSer heaved 10 floppin’ basses in the bucket. All eyeballs focused on the needle of the scales as it bounced in a crazy dance, then finally came to rest. “Twenty pounds, fifteen ounces,” grunted Dead–Eye. “Guess that gives you the lead, Mouse!”

But ever’body knew it was far from over, on accounta Crusty Popodopolus was a-hangin‘ back and a-waitin’ to weigh-in towards the end. From the sneaky way Crusty kept crackin’ open the lid on his Hydro–Blaster’s livewell, we knew that rascal musta got him. some great ol’ big ‘uns.

But where was me ‘n’ Harry through all this? Wellsir, lemme tell you, folks, we was a-layin’ low. We wanted this here tournyment to be one them Bass Clubbers would never forget!

“OK, Crusty, you is next,” Dead-Eye said. The itinerant Greek billionaire BASSer adjusted the gold braid on his double-knit fishin’ cap and put him on a pair of white gloves so’s he wouldn’t get that ol’ fishy smell on his pinkies. Then he reached down ‘n grabbed the genuine lizard-covered grip on his Abercrombie & Fitch double- duty lunker stringer with gold-plated hawg clips and gived it the ol’ heave-ho. The gasp what went up from the crowd, includin’ as- sorted wives, curious crappie-jerkin’ onlookers, and various chil- dren with runny noses, meant that Crusty had taken the lead.

Crusty had him a limit of the fattest, sassiest hawgs you ever did see. The smallest looked to go around fo’ pounds ‘n they went all the way up to just over seven. “You is fo’ sho’ the shoo-in BASSer for the first-place trophy!” Mouse said, fightin’ back the disappoint- ment. Clearly the ex-Greek sponge diver had pulled victory’s rug from under the little pizza-chomper’s Keds. 

“Forty–seven pounds, three ounces!” whistled Dead-Eye. Crusty just flashed his gold teeth and proclaimed how it tweren’t nothin’, folks, just another example of his professional Greek fish- findin’ ability.

“How ’bout Ol’ Harry ‘n’ Charlie?” asked Lefty LePieux in fluent Cajun. He bit the tail off’n a crawfish, took him another swaller of Dixie’s finest, and laughed, “Mebbe they caught ’em some bank-runners, you betcha!”

“I dunno,” drawled Big Moe as he chomped on the stale remains of his 48-ounce bag of Nilla Wafers. “I thought I spied Ol’ Harry a- loadin’ a cricket cage into ol’ Stump Jumper this mornin’!”

“Laugh, you sorry slobs!” said Harry, his teeth gritted like Burt Lancaster. “C’mon, Charlie, let’s you ‘n‘ me show them clowns what real hawgin’ is all about!”

“Me ‘n’ Harry’d been a-waitin’ for this here magic moment ever’ since we first started bass fishin’. For years, we’d been finishin’ outa the money in our Bass Club tournaments. Ever’ month when the newsletter’d come out, there we’d be, jockeyin’ for last position in the point standin’s. Oh, the shame we’d done gone through! But not this time. On accounta we’d done cleaned house in the bassin‘ department!”

“Holy transducers!” gulped Crusty as me ‘n‘ Harry dragged our limit strings t’wards the scales. Onlookin’ womenfolk looked at us in awe. Men took off their baseball caps ‘n started snappin’ pictures. And Crusty Popodopolus went into a rage! Ever hear a Greek swear? It’s got a right musical lilt to it.

The smallest hawgjaw on my string went six pounds. The biggest was almost nine. And Harry, wellsir, his string made mine look skimpy! Big blue knots popped out on his forehead as he strained to lift his mammoth catch into the weigh-in bucket. He had three bass over 10 pounds, and that little seven-an‘-a-quarter bringin’ up the rear tweren’t no minner, neither.

“Hey, watch it, Harry!” Dead-Eye shouted as Harry’s hunnerd- pound-‘r-so of hawgjaws sunk into the basket. “I jus’ got these here scales adjusted last week!” 

“THERE, you polecats!” Harry cried with glee as the enormous limit busted the mainspring of the tournyment scales! The needle spun aroun’ like the tachometer on a unlimited hydroplane and the crowd gasped. A piffle of blue smoke shot outa the scales ‘n the whole thing gived out with a sickenin’ SPROINGGG!!!

“Dangit, Harry, now we is gonna hafta use the banquet fund ‘n buy us another set of scales!” Dead-Eye complained. “Aww, you got these cheap ol’ things over to the flea market in Onion City,” Harry retorted. Didn’t cost you no more’n a buck two-eighty!”

Someone handed Harry the winner’s cup, a semi-expensive plastic plated hawjaw on a genuine imitation marble base. His face lit up like the mar-key of a Nashville strip joint.

“I is fo’ever grateful fo’ this honor,” Harry began. “Aww, shaddap ‘n tell us what ya caught them there lunkers on, Harry!” Mouse said. Clearly, the interest was mighty high in Harry ‘n mine’s secret sow-killer plug.

“Folks, I’d love to tell ya what me ‘n’ Charlie caught these here basses on, Harry said slyly, “but we is still in the provin’ stage. I will say this much, tho. . . it’s a lure of my own design!“

Them Bass Clubbers was fit to bust with curiosity about Harry’s new homemade lunker bait, but we weren’t talkin’. As we loaded up the Lunker Express, Big Moe sidled over.

“Hey, Harry,” he whispered, peekin’ over his shoulder to make sure nobody was a-listenin’ in, “I’s right proud that y’all won the tournyment. Now how’s about tellin’ your ol’ buddy Big Moe what bait y’all was a-usin’?”

“Nope,” Harry said, his lips tighter’n a clam. “It’s a seecret.” ‘Awwww, c’mon, Harry,” said Big Moe in his most butterin’-up tone of voice. “Tell you what I’ll treat y’all to a brew over at Zonkers if’n you shows me that there bait!”

Secrets was one thing, but free brews was another, so Harry cracked open the ice chest ‘n withdrew one of them beautiful 9- pound basses. “Just take a peek down that lunker’s throat,” Harry said in whispered tones. Harry spread the hawgjaw’s mouth apart ‘n Big Moe eyeballed the magic bait. “Welll I’ll be,” he muttered. “Sho’ is a funny-lookin’ thing!”

Harry’s homemade plug, what we’d been experimentin’ on for a few months now, was probably the most unlikely-lookin’ bass lure ever to skip over a stob. It was about eight inches long, handcarved outa a broom handle. Big pasty-lookin’ eyeballs adorned the front end, what was all distorted with a big divin’ lip. On the rear end, a big hunk of chicken feathers covered a serious- lookin’ treble hook.

“This little number just cain’t miss,” Harry said proudly as Big Moe scratched his head. “She crawls through all them brushtops ‘n grassbeds and such, with them chicken feathers a-fannin’ and a- wavin’ real enticin’-like. Them lunkers eat it like candy!”

“Sounds to me like you really got something there, Harry,” said Big Moe. “Hey, did you ever think of makin’ them there lures FULL TIME?“

‘Whaddaya mean, full time?” asked Harry. “Shucks, me ‘n’ Charlie got regular jobs we gotta keep showin’ up at so’s we can support our ol’ ladies in the grand manner to which they’ve become accustomed.” Harry was stretchin’ the truth somewhat. Even with his recent promotion to “Vice President In Charge Of Paintin’ Double Yeller Lines” on the county road crew, Harry tweren’t no J. Paul Getty. And my job of drivin’ a Tom’s Peanut truck kept me plenny of free snackin’s, but little else.

“Listen, Harry,” said Big Moe, leanin’ forward so’s we could smell the Nilla Wafers on his breath. “There’s city folk’s that’d pay a whole fifty cents for a lunker-catchin‘ bass lure like that!”

Suddenly Harry got him a look what told me Big Moe had planted the seed of a bright idea. On the way over to Zonker’s Tavern, Harry seemed right excited about the thought.

“Listen, Charlie, how much money you reckon it’d take to go into full-blowed production on these here hawgin’ lures?” he wondered. His body was wrigglin’ and twitchin’ some, so I could tell he were excited.

“Now Harry,” I cautioned, “don’t let’s get us involved in another one of your hair-brained schemes. I got a lot of overdue bills what I ain’t paid yet. I can’t afford to get into no lure-makin’ business full time!”

“Easy ol’ buddy,” Harry said, with that faraway look in his eyeballs. “You ‘n’ me, we is fixin’ to be rich!” 

Next mornin’ found us all dressed up in our Robert Hall suits, sittin’ down at the Swamp Gas Corners National Bank, talkin’ to ol’ Clyde Freeble about a loan. Clyde was a good ol’ boy who loved bassin‘ even more than sayin’ NO to folks what come to borrow money from him. When Harry showed him his lunker bait, Clyde’s eyeballs got bigger ‘n two pizza pans.

“Hey, this looks like the real thing,” Clyde said. “You say she really catches them big ‘uns, huh Harry?”

“Mr. Freeble, sir, that there bait’ll put Swamp Gas Corners on the map,” said Harry as he adjusted the stickpin in his thin tie. “Now we don’t need a whole lotta cash — just a coupla thousand to rent us a barn, ‘n some bread for buyin’ chickens and broom handles ‘n such.”

“Y’all got yo’sef a deal,” said Clyde. He writ out a big fat check. “Here’s the money. But this scheme better work or you boys’ll be sweepin’ out the teller’s cage after hours for the rest of your lives!”

“Don’t worry ’bout THAT none!” said Harry as he folded up the check. “This here plan is foolproof!”

C‘mere, you rascal!” said Harry as he chased another chicken around’ the barn. I. ” needs yo tail feathers for another lunker bait!” The new home of the Harry ‘n’ Charlie Lure Company, a barn just outside of town with a big Chew Mail Pouch paintin’ on the side, reeked from the hunnerd-odd chickens we’d bought. It was midnight, and we was right tired from cuttin’ up broom handles ‘n such, makin‘ a few dadblamed lures. We decided to take a break over a cold glass of ROC.

I eyeballed the stack of 15 freshly-painted plugs we’d finished that night. “Harry, at this rate, we is never gonna be rich.” ‘Sides that, I is a-gettin’ right sick and tired of stayin’ up half the night workin’. Now we needs to sit down and discuss this here lure company some afore we plucks one more chicken!”

“You is right, ol’ buddy,” sighed Harry wearily. “I got us a few marketin’ proposals I done worked out rough. I gonna lay ’em on you right now.”

Harry figgered he was an advertisin’ expert on accounta he could remember most ever’ one of them Burma Shave rhymes he’d seen as a lad along the highway. He rummaged aroun’ in a corner of the barn and dug out a paper bag.

“This here lunker bait is the best hawg-killer goin’, you ‘n me both knows that,” he began. “But we ain’t a- gonna sell a dad-blamed thing without havin’ us a GIMMICK!“

“What you talkin’ about, boy?” I wondered.

“Like them Big-Os they been makin’ by the millions,” he said. “They don’t just put ’em in a Baggie. They sells ’em in a dad-blamed EGG CARTON! Now that’s a right clever bit of thinkin’, if’n you asks me. It sets that there bait apart from the others right off, don’t it?”

“I reckon,” I said. “You got anything in mind?”

“Sho’ nuff do,” he said. “I was a-rummagin’ aroun’ this here ol’ abandoned barn ‘n lifted up one of the planks on the floor, and low ‘n behold, I found me the treasure trove whats a-gonna put the Harry ‘n’ Charlie Lure Company in the black. Eyeball this li’l gem!”

Harry reached in the bag and handed me a rusty ol’ tobakky tin. It was a real beauty: Ole Saddle Sore, vintage 1910. 

“She’s right nice, Harry,” I said. “but what’s this gimmick you got in mind?”

“Dummy, you is holdin’it!” said Harry impatiently. “The ol’farmer what usta own this here barn musta been a real Ole Saddle Sore fan way back when, on accounta they is TEN THOUSAND of them dandy li’l tobakky tins under this here barn! Folks these days really take a likin’ to anything what’s ol’ timey like that there tin. If’n we puts out baits in one of them there ‘bakky toters, we can sell it as the genuine country article for – oh, five bucks a whack!“

“FIVE BUCKS?!” I gasped. “Who’d pay FIVE BUCKS for a dad-blamed hawgin’ lure?”

“There’s lotsa folks what’d shell out plenty mo’ than that fo’a bait what’d take them a stringer of sowbellies like you ‘n’ me done won that there tournyment with,” he said as his eyeballs blazed. “This here tobakky tin’ll give it uh, how does them network newscasters say it – oh, you know . . . CHARISMA!!!“

“Charisma?” I wondered. “Hain’t that a disease of the kidneys?“

“Charlie, you is by far dumber than I ever thought. Charisma is that feelin’ that somethin’ gives off that it’s extry-special… sorta a mysterious, magic feelin’! You knows what I’s talkin’ about, doncha?”

I scratched my head ‘n tried the best I knew how to figure out all this “charisma” stuff, but it was a mystery to me. On the other hand, puttin’ up them there lures inside that little tobakky tin seemed like a right clever idee on Harry’s part. Yessir, I could picture a feller takin’ one of them there baits outa that tin box for the first time… some lunker-starved Yankee, for example, what had heard all his life about them great ol’ big ‘uns us Southern country boys was supposedly always catchin’ on some homemade plug. “What we gonna call this here lure, Harry?” I wondered. “After all, its gotta have a name.”

“How ’bout the Big-H?” Harry said. “Naww . . . that ain’t no good, too many alfybet plugs runnin’ aroun’ the lakes already.”

“We could call it ‘Harry’s Heavenly Hawg Hanger’,” I suggested. “That’s got a right nice ring to it!”

“Naww, that ain’t no good neither. We gotta come up with somethin’ right mysterious soundin’. . . somethin’. . . like..

“Snigglelymphus!” I don’t know what made me say it, but I’d done said it.

“What?” Evidently Harry thought he hadn’t heard right. “Snigglelymphus!” I repeated. “Hey, that’s it! If “Snigglelymphus” don’t sound mysterious, there ain’t nothin’ that does!”

“You is right, ol’ buddy,” Harry said. He said the crazy word right slow ‘n smooth. “Snigglelymphus .. the lure America’s awaited!”

Wellsir, things got to rollin’ along right good about then. We spent two months hand-makin’ ten thousand Snigglelymphus plugs ‘n a-packin’ ’em in them li’l tin tobakky cans. At first we tried sellin’ them amongst the bassin’ crowd at home, but we could see that ‘twern’t a-gonna get us rich. Then Harry decided on his big promotional scheme.

“Charlie, we gotta stretch the truth ever-so-little to sell all these here Snigglelymphus plugs,” he said. “Which is exactly what I’s gone ‘n done. Lookee here, ol’ buddy!”

Harry handed me a glossy 8×10 photo of himself holdin’ up a 20- pound bass. With a Snigglelymphus prominently displayed in it’s lower jaw, natch.

“Harry, that there is a cardboard hawgjaw if’n I ever saw one. Now where’d you come by that fake finny fighter?”

“Done sneaked over to Sidebottom’s Boat Dock in the middle of the night and sawed the leapin’ lunker outer his Boats Fer Rent sign! Hain’t it a good’un, tho?” Harry’s plan was to use this slightly truth- stretchin’ photo in an advertisement featurin’ our lure. He unfolded the cardboard outa a Jelly Worm pack ‘n read me the words what went along with the adv: 

“Wellsir, that fo’ sho’ oughta get us some orders,” I laughed. “Either that, or 10 years for mail fraud!!!”

We put the adv. in all them bassin‘ magazines and afore you knowed it, them five dollar bills commenced to pourin’ in.

Well, the “pourin”” was sorta a “trickle” at first, but then word began to get aroun’. Finally them big tackle wholesalers got wind of it and next thing you knowed, we was in over our heads.

“C’mon, Harry, cut off another length of broom handle!” I complained. It was three a.m. and my bassin’ buddy was asleep standin’ up. We had just got an order for twenny thousand Snigglelymphus baits ‘n there was no way me ‘n‘ Harry was a-gonna make ‘em by hand.

“Charlie,” Harry groaned, “we gotta take our profits so far ‘n buy some machines to make these here lures. I got into this here lure business so’s I could spend more time fishin’ and such… heck, I hain’t even seen the lake for two months!” It was true. Me ‘n’ Harry’d been burnin’ the midnight oil. My ol’ lady was threatenin’ to leave me. Worse than that, Harry’s was threatenin’ to come back!

To make a long story short, we got us a bunch of fancy–dan machinery what would turn out them Snigglelymphus plugs faster’n you could say “Lake Kissimmee.” Did we go into hock? You ain’t just whistlin’ Dixie we did. Fact is, we took ever’ dime we’d made, plus a few thousand bucks mo’, and reinvested it in the company, as them business tycoons says.

Harry was proud as punch the day the new chicken-pluckin’ machine arrived. This jewel would strip a chicken of its feathers slick as a whistle. He couldn’t wait to try it out.

“Lemme see how this baby works,” Harry said excitedly after we’d uncrated the contraption, what looked like a Rube Goldberg cartoon.

“Hey, you best read the instruction book afore doin’ anything hasty,” I reminded him.

“Awww, horsefeathers, ain’t no time for no instruction readin’! We got us 10,000 chickens to pluck afore mornin’. C’mon, plug ‘er in ‘n let’s see how she works!”

I plugged in the machine and there was a big grindin’ noise as all them gears ‘n wheels commenced to turnin’.

“Hand me a chicken, Charlie!” said Harry. “This here’s a-gonna be good!”

Harry grabbed a chicken and looked for somethin’ to shove the poor bird into so’s his feathers would get plucked. But he leaned a li’l bit too close, and disaster reared her head once again! 

“Helllpppp!” came Harry’s sorry cry as a big hand reached out and grabbed him by the collar, jerkin’ him into the machine. Another hand grabbed his legs and afore you knew it, into the machine he went! I reckon I panicked on accounta all I could do was watch with wide eyeballs as the chicken-pluckin’ machine did its thing!

Rip! Rip! Big gloved fingers was sproutin‘ ever’where outa that infernal machine and afore you knew it, Harry tweren’t so hairy no mo”!

“Pull the plug! Charlie! Pull the plug!” Harry was in a bad way, but his pleas for help finally sunk into my head, what was in a state of shock. I pulled the plug ‘n the whole thing ground to a halt. . . leavin‘ Harry without a hair on his head! (Or anyplace else, for that matter!)

Wellsir, that minor disaster behind us, we kept right on a- makin’ them Snigglelymphus lures and collectin’ them five dollar bills. Harry started wearin’ some of that expensive Little Gentleman cologne and went out ‘n bought himse’f a brand-new work shirt. He was fast makin’ plans to retire next year and build him a house right out in the middle of Belly Button Bayou. I had to admit the Harry ‘n’ Charlie Lure Company had been a right good success, but I’d been aroun’ Ol’ Harry long enough to know that things would turn sour sooner or later.

As it turned out, it was sooner. That afternoon, in fact. We’d just received a shipment of 30,000 chickens, 15,000 sets of Tiawanese glass eyeballs ‘n 500,000 broom handles when a stranger appeared at the door.

“Are you the gentlemen in charge here?” he wanted to know. A right sissified lookin’ ol’ geezer if’n they ever was one, he was, what with his peach-colored kerchief and flowered shirt ‘n all. Harry said, “We is it. Now what kin we do fer ya, mister?”

“My name is Francis Fopp, gentlemen. My business is antiques.

“Antiques? Heck you done come to the wrong place, buddy. We makes bass baits here! That ‘n money, of course!” Harry guffawed some at his clever joke.

“Yes, I’m aware of that,” said the delicate-lookin’ gent. “You make a device called the ‘Snigglelymphus’ I believe? Dear me, that’s a quaint name, if I do say so!”

“Yeah, well I reckon you can say so, but you’re on my time,” Harry snorted. He didn’t have no time for jabberin’ with an ol’ weirdo on accounta he had a lot of chickens what needed pluckin’. 

“Please, sir!” said the antique dealer. “Is it not true that you are packaging your product in authentic tins of Ole Saddle Sore tobacco?” “Yeah, that’s right. What of it?” Harry was his usual unpleasant self, but I felt the rumblin’s of bad news comin’ our way. “And is it not true that you are selling that same product, packaged in those same tins for five dollars apiece?” 

“Right on, mister. Now” I grabbed Harry’s arm and interrupted him: “Hey Harry, let the man talk. I think he’s got something to say!”

The ol’ guy whipped out a big catalog showin’ antique stuff in it, like chairs and ol’ brass beds ‘n other such junk what lotsa city folks buys up for big dollars. He turned way to the back and his face brightened up.

“Here it is!” he said right excited-like. “Is this the tin you’ve been using?”

Harry leaned forward ‘n eyeballed the picture. Yep, it was a 1910 vintage tin of Ole Saddle Sore, all right.

“In that case, you’ve just lost a fortune!” the man said. “You’ve been selling those funny-looking fish foolers in those Ole Saddle Sore tins for five dollars apiece. Do you realize that THE TINS ALONE ARE WORTH TWO HUNDRED DOLLARS EACH???” Harry’s face got as blank as a tin slug. “Wh-wh-WHAT did you say?” he asked nervously, knowing full well what he’d said.

“I said, those tins are antiques! They’re collectors’ items! You’ve been throwing them away for five dollars each! Sir, I’m prepared to pay catalog price for every Ole Saddle Sore tobacco tin you have left!” 

“Hey, that’s great news, Harry!” I said. “Shoot, we’ll make forty times as much money sellin’ tobakky tins as we’ve made sellin‘ Snigglelymphus lures and we won’t hafta pluck no more chickens, neither!”

But I could tell by Harry’s spasmodic droolin’ that somethin’ else was wrong. “Harry? Speak to me! You don’t mean “But my bassin‘ buddy managed to nod his head. Frantically I went over to the corner of the barn and lifted the floorboard where Harry’d found all them tobakky tins.

They was all gone. “Glbbnnn,” Harry sputtered in nonsense tones. “I used the LAST ONE THIS MORNIN’!!!“

“Oh dear me,” said the antique dealer as a plucked chicken landed on Harry’s head. “That’s a pity. I guess your adv. showing that old tobacco tin made quite an impact among antique collectors! They really got a bargain at five dollars apiece!

“You mean we ain’t been sellin’ these here Snigglelymphus baits to bass fishermen all this time?” I wondered.

“Heavens no!” laughed the old guy. “A friend of mine soaked your lure in water overnight and the next morning, all the feathers had come unglued, the eyeballs had fallen out, and the broom handle got waterlogged and sank! Why, that lure isn’t worth five cents!“

Harry passed out and I just looked around me at all the capital goods what we’d just gone into hock for. “Hey mister,” I wondered, “we may not have no more Ole Saddle Sore tins left, but I couldn’t interest you in THIRTY THOUSAND CHICKENS, could I?” 

Poor Ol’ Harry. If’n there was ever a man what was born with a worse streak of bad luck a-runnin’ through him, wellsir, I ain’t never met him. The mere presence of my bassin’ buddy Harry usually results in disaster. Like Wilbur Wangle down to the fillin’ station says, “Harry is the only guy livin’ what could screw up an anvil!”

The latest f’rinstance happened just last week. If’n y’all got a coupla minutes, I’d be right proud to tell you ’bout it. Setcha down, grab ya some Dry Roasteds ‘n a bottle of R-O-C Cola and give a listen whilst I fills ya in on our trip to that hawg hole to end all hawg holes: Youfallinna Lake!

It’d been a long, hot summer down in Swamp Gas Corners and the bass fishin’ hadn’t been up to par. But me ‘n’ Harry was fixin’ to make up for our empty stringers by makin’ a doozy of a hawgin’ venture ‘way off yonder to where them Great Ol’ Big ‘Un’s lives… Youfallinna Lake.

Now, this here lake was somethin’ else, accordin’ to all them outdoor writers in the papers and them guys on TV what goes fishin’ down there. I can still recall Harry’s eyeballs a-spinnin’ when we tuned in on the “Buster Lyne Show” one night. Ol‘ Buster was there, all fancy-lookin’ in his double-knit jumpin’ suit, fishin’ right alongside of none other than Tom Mann, that feller what makes all them scuppernong Jelly Worms and Li’l Georges ‘n such.

“Looks like this here program’s a-gonna be a good ‘un,” I said as I opened a bag of family sized Doritos with my teeth. The tellyvision pitcher showed Buster ‘n Tom blastin’ off into the mornin’ mist in hot pursuit of them wily hawgjawed lunker basses. Harry, sensin’ that lunker excitement were about to occur, was a-sittin’ rigid as a dried-up pork chunk in his favert easy chair . . . the one with all the Viennie stains on the arms.

“Woo–wee, Charlie!” burbled Harry. “I kin smell them ten- pounders right here in my livin’ room!”

“Tain’t no ten-pounders, Harry,” I reminded my twitchin’ pal. “What you is a-smellin’ is the garbage out in the kitchen what you done been puttin’ off takin’ out for the past week!”

“Charlie!” cried Harry right excited-like. “Lookee this!!!” The tellyvision screen showed Buster s-t-r-e-t-c-h-i-n’ out as far as he could with his trusty hawg stick, then POW! . . . he crossed the eyeballs of a humongous lunker sowbelly bass! Tom Mann lower- jawed the critter and a floppin’ hawgjaw was in the boat. Buster held ‘im up all drippin’ ‘n floppin’ for us poor souls out in Tellyvision Land to get a load of.

“Look at that bass!” said Harry, clenchin’ his teeth ‘n breathin’ hard. It was as big aroun’ as a keg o’nails and looked as wide as it were long.

“Typical Youfallinna Lake bass,” Buster said right matter-of- factly as they plopped the huge hawgjaw into the livewell. It sounded like a Cuban jazz quartet as it tried to bust the boat apart with its frustrated floppin’s.

“Gotcha!” grunted the Jelly Worm king as the TV screen portrayed another outsized fish bein’ conquered by Tom Mann.

“I cain’t take no mo”!” Harry moaned, as he tried his best to cover his eyeballs with two Nehi bottle caps. “Them basses is a- givin’ me heart failure!”

The show went on like that, with Buster ‘n Tom sockin’ it to them Youfallinna Lake basses right ‘n left. When they finally wrapped it up, they had a shot of two bass limits what had to send ’em both to the Youfallinna emergency room with double hernias. Harry was reduced to a quiverin’ blob of nerve endin’s. Me? Wellsir, I had done made up my mind about one thing: We hadta get on down to fish this lake fast!

“Harry, how much money you got saved up?” I asked my bassin’ buddy. In betwixt a-twitchin’ and a-wigglin’, he eyeballed me with that knowin’ look what says we got a hawgin’ trip on the horizon!

Harry went out next day and took his ol’ lady’s imitation nutria fur coat what he’d bought her for Christmas last year at the second-hand shop, down to the Pawn Shoppe. I waited outside and finally, after much hagglin‘, out he come, a-grinnin’ like a Cajun at a crawfish bake.

“Hee-hee-hee!” he snickered, wavin’ a passel of greenbacks in face. “That ther’ frock netted me a hunnerd bucks. Looks like we is on our way to Lunker Heaven!” Harry allowed as how he never liked that coat much on Maybelline nohow, bein’ as how it made her look sorta like one of them Abdominal Snowmen, only uglier. I couldn’t disagree, neither. Why, Maybelline was so ugly, that when she was just a baby, her momma had to hang a pork chop aroun❜her neck afore the dog would play with her! But I digress.

Next stop was by Zonker’s Tavern to spread the word amongst the local Bass Clubbers gathered therein that me ‘n’ Harry was a- gonna make the jaunt down to Youfallinna Lake. Once again, Harry’s big mouth was about to get us both in a heap o’ trouble.

“Well, wouldja lookee here,” Wilbur Wangle said in betwixt gulps on a quart bottle of Grain Belt. “If’n it ain’t the Pecks Bad Boys of Bassin’?”

“Aww, go change a fan belt or somethin’,” Harry grumbled. “We hain’t got time to sit ‘n chit-chat with you right at the present, Wilbur. Me ‘n’ Charlie here has a lot o’ preparin’ to do!”

“Preparin’ for what?” wondered Crusty Popodopolus. “What’re y’all fixin’ to make a mess of now?” 

“Me ‘n’ Harry is a-gonna take us a little trip down to Youfal- linna Lake!” I announced proudly.

“G’wan,” laughed Big Moe. “Y’all been dreamin’ again!” “It’s true!” Harry beamed. A hush fell on the Bass Clubbers as he unrolled his wad of change. “We done scrounged together the bucks ‘n we is a-leavin‘ in the mornin’.”

“You think that thar lake is as good as they crack it up to be on tellyvision?” wondered Mouse Mozzarella as he bit the tip off’n a pepperoni stick.

“Better!” Harry up ‘n said, and he really started to lay it on ’em. “I done heard tell that nearly ever’ cast results in a ten-pound hawgjaw slurpin’ in your Jelly Worm… of course, ya gotta have natural bassin’ known-how like me ‘n’ Charlie got! Cain’t jus’ no ordinary run-o’-the-mill perch jerker like one of y’all go on down there ‘n expect to connect with a mountin‘-sized barrelbelly!”

Wilbur, who’d had it out for Harry ever’ since the last tournyment, when Harry’d done slipped a turtle into his livebox what ate up all of Wilbur’s keepers, tweren’t convinced Ol’ Harry’s luck was about to change none on this upcomin’ fishin’ trip.

“Tell ya what I’s a-gonna do,” Wilbur said. “If’n you brings back a ten-pound bass like you says you gonna, I’ll go on down to the Magic Mart and buy you a shiny new hawg stick. ‘Course, on the other hand, if’n you don’t bring back no great ol’ big ‘un, wellsir, you is a-gonna hafta do the same for me!“

“They always says a gennelman don’t bet on no sure thing,” Harry said, “but then I never was known for bein’ no gennelman. You is on, fathead!”

Now I want y’all to know that the reason Youfallinna Lake has got so many outsized lunkers a-swimmin’in it is on accounta a feller could drive to Peru faster! With the Lunker Express loaded to the breakin’ point with hawgin’ gear and provisions ‘n such, hour after endless hour was spent drivin’ halfway across the country. Road maps and ceegar butts ‘n Viennie rip-tabs littered the cab of my trusty pickup as we let Charlie Pride, Merle Haggard ‘n Miss Dolly sing us on down the road.

Harry was too tensed up to drive none, and just kept splutterin’ about all them basses what we was a-gonna catch. As day turned into night, the headlights from oncomin’ Peterbuilts burned clean through my eyeballs ‘n started affectin’ my brain some. Finally, just as I swore the ol’ Lunker Express weren’t a-gonna make it up one more hill, we saw a sign: YOUFALLINNA LAKE 10 MILES.

Harry’s monotone snorin’ had threatened to lull me off to dreamland for the past hour, but this was cause for a sudden surge of energy. “Harry!” I cried. “Wake up, ol’ buddy! We is almost there!”

“Whazzat??” blurted Harry as he like to jumped outa his hide. “Charlie, why’d you go ‘n wake me up? I was havin’ the best dream … me ‘n Miss Dolly had jus’ gone into business together!”

“What kinda business?” I wondered.

“She was turnin’ over her second-hand eyelashes to me ‘n I was makin’ streamer flies outa them! Now what’s up?”

“We is about to hit our destination, ol’ pal!” I grinned. “Youfallinna Lake!”

We started seein’ all them “Motel Ahead” signs ‘n “Guide Service Available” posters and such, ever’ one of which had a huge leapin’ lunker emblazoned on it. Finally we slipped up ‘n over the last hilltop and there, all covered up real spooky-like with fog, laid the Piece d’Resistance of bassin’. . . Youfallinna Lake! 

“Ngrggn!” twitched Harry in nonsense tones as I tried my best to calm his nervous twitchin’s. But I had to admit this here was one time when “The Shakes” like to got the best o’ me, too! Yessir, I could almost feel the surgin’ stampede of power of one of them Youfallinna Lake lunkers!

“Lookee here at all these fancy bassin’ rigs we is about to see,” I winked as we chugged into the driveway of the Chew-‘n-Swallow Motel. “All them rich bassin’ folks with them Hydro-Blasters ‘n such spends months at a time down here, pluckin’ sowbellies from the depths ever’day!”

But somethin’ right peculiar met our eyeballs. There weren’t no parkin’ lot crammed with fancy bassin’ boats on chrome-plated trailers. There weren’t no soft snorin’ sound emittin’ from the 60- odd rooms of the motel as sleepin‘ bass fishermen dreamed of the big ‘uns they’d be a-takin’ come mornin’. Fact is, the dern place looked deserted!

“Y’all come on in, boys,” said an old feller in a nightshirt inside the office. “Been gittin’ right lonely around here lately!”

“Where’s all the bassin’ crowd?” Harry wondered. “Why, you woulda thought they’d be packin’ this here place to the rafters. . ‘specially after that there Buster Lyne Show ‘tother night!”

“You mean the show where Buster’s a-fishin’ with Tom Mann?” the old geezer laughed. “Son, they done filmed that show last spring!“

I could feel our hawgin’ dream vacation dissolvin’ afore my eyeballs. “Ain’t the basses been hittin’ none?” I wondered.

“Oh, they’s been a-hittin’ all right,” laughed the motel manager. “But the problem is gettin‘ to ’em!” “What you talkin’ ’bout, mister?” grumbled Harry. “This here’s our windy season boys!” he said. “Why son, when that there autumn wind blows, basses ‘r no basses, you don’t wanna be out on Youfallinna Lake!”

“We ain’t scaired of no rough water,” Harry said, spittin’ a big stem outa his Days Work.

“Yeah, but this here water’s different.” The old guy leaned forward ‘n his bifocals slipped down on the end of his nose. “Youfallinna Lake is about a foot deep all around ‘n a hunnerd miles long. When that wind starts a-blowin’, them waves starts a- rollin’. Waves so big, you’d swear you was on the China Sea in a hurrycane!”

“You mean we come all this way for nothin’?” I gasped.

“Mebbe not,” said the manager. “Weather forcast shows them winds to be a-layin’ down some come the next day ‘r so… that is, providin’ one of them tropical tornady’s don’t come a-blowin’ our way like they usually does this time of year. What kinda boat y’all bring with ya?”

I pointed my finger in the direction of Ol’ Stump Jumper in the back of the truck and the ol’ geezer just shook his head. “Y’all better take out some extry insurance if’n ya expects to take that thing out onto the lake! Tell you what . . . my brother-in-law guides nice tourist folks like y’all when the mood strikes him to. If’n anybody’ll know where all this wind has blowed them basses to, he will. Want me to give ‘im a call ‘n setcha up in the mornin’?”

A quick look-see at the Ol’ Guide map of Youfallinna Lake showed me ‘n’ Harry that we had no hopes of findin’ our way through the maze o’ coves ‘n creeks ‘n channels ‘n such. We decided to pool our eatin’ money and let a bassin’ chauffeur carry us to glory. A quick phone call and we was all set up. “He says wind ‘r no wind, he’ll putcha onto them hawgjaws,” the manager said. “Just go on down to the marina over yonder at 6 a.m. and ask for Sarge. He’ll take it from there!”

After a fitful night of tryin’ to sleep while Harry sorted out slip sinkers ‘n banged stuff aroun’ in his possumbelly tacklebox, daylight finally arrived with all the subtlety of a How-Are-Yan shirt. My head felt like the Chinese army was a-marchin’ inside my skull after all that drivin’ the night afore. My mouth tasted like the inside of a hamster cage, ‘n I needed me some coffee bad.

“Let’s get on down to the restaurant and get us some vittles,” I groaned.

“No time for that,” snapped Harry. “It’s quarter to five! We gotta make sure we is standin’ on the dock, hawg sticks in hand, when ol’ Sarge shows up to guide us!”

It was no use remindin’ Harry that the dock was only a hunnerd yards away, on accounta the po’ boy was all tensed up prior to gettin’ his first shot at them Youfallinna Lake hawgjaws. 

So we goes on down to the Chew ‘n Swallow Marina and eyeballs all them unbelievable lunker basses what is mounted on the wall inside. They even had some of them comical bass mounts, like your ol’ favert with the false teeth betwixt his lips, plus one I ain’t never saw afore, namely a rare Siberian bass what had a coupla antelope horns affixed over his eyeballs. I chuckled some but it was clear Ol’ Harry weren’t in a jokin’ mood. He kept lookin’ at his official Bill Dance wristwatch.

“Where’s that dang Sarge?” Harry wondered. “It’s 6 a.m. sharp ‘n he ain’t here!”

Suddenly out of the dawn mist came the sound of a creak-creak- creakin’ bass boat bein’ hauled on a trailer. Next thing we knowed a big tough-lookin’ feller was a-pumpin’ our hands.

“Howdy, gents! Name’s Sarge. Sarge the Guide, at yo’ service. So y’all wanna catch you some great ol’ big ‘uns, eh?”

“You jus’ ain’t a-flappin‘ yo’ gums we do!” I allowed. “I’m Charlie, ‘n this here skinny-lookin’ nervous feller, he’s Harry!”

“Pleased to meetcha. Now let’s get a-move on. We is a-wastin’ time. We got us some calm waters fo’ a change, ‘n I wanna get our hawgin’ done now so’s we kin make it back in afore them big winds commences to blowin‘.”

Quick as a hyperactive bunny rabbit, we dumped our gear into Sarge’s fancy-dan bassin‘ boat ‘n roared off into the fog.

“Y’all really gotta know yer way aroun’ this here lake, on accounts there’s mo’ gravel bars ‘n stumps ‘n such than you ever did see,” Sarge shouted over the roar of his outboard kicker. “We gonna hit the main lake now ‘n try some of my secret bassin’ holes!“

HARRY’S LAW:

“Make sure yore fishin’ partner is in the right position — so his cast can’t reach the stump FIRST!…”

Afore we went any further, Sarge slowed down the boat, put ‘er in neutral ‘n blindfolded us so’s we couldn’t tell nobody the whereabouts of them dream bassin’ locales. Harry protested some at first but Sarge, who was a retired army type, shouted “ATTENTION!” ‘n poor Harry, thinkin’ for a moment he was back at Fort Knocknee peelin’ taters, was scairt to move none. Blind- folds in place, we roared off again.

The first stop was one of Sarge’s favert wormin’ holes. “Now listen here, y’all, on accounta I’s only gonna tell you one time,” Sarge growled. “Rig this here worm up just like I’s a-showin’ ya ‘n put a spray ‘r two of this here Parfum de Lunker on ‘er! Then toss ‘er out yonder ‘n let ‘er sink. Then bring ‘er back r-e-a-l s-l-o-w like ‘n watch out!”

Harry was a-jerkin’ like a carnival ride as he followed Sarge’s instructions to the letter, Sarge made it clear that doin’ things any other way would not only result in an empty stringer, but a few days in the brig as well!

“Easy, Harry!” I urged as I watched the poor nervous BASSer tryin’ to work the worm without twitchin’ none. Suddenly the whole boat gived a lurch ‘n Sarge was fast into a leapin’ lunker!

“There ya go, boys!” grinned the amiable Sarge. “Looks like he’ll tip the scales about nine-fo”!” Harry just kept on a–twitchin’. Sarge let his Jelly Worm fly one mo’ time ‘n BANG! . . . another hawgjaw was in the boat.

Harry was burned. “Uh, if’n ya don’t mind me sayin‘ so, Mister Sarge,” Harry grumbled, “uh, WE is the ones what is s’posed to be catchin’ them trophy basses! Now, I sho’ nuff do wish that you’d quit front–endin‘ me ‘n my buddy here!”

“WHAT?” roared the guide, who had his stripes sewed right next to his B.A.S.S. patch on his jumpin‘ suit. “I’s a-gonna court martial you, boy, if’n you don’t hush yo’ mouth!” It was clear his military upbringin’ didn’t tolerate no low-down country-fried BASSers like Harry. 

A couple more casts found them hawgs moved outa the hole. And to make matters worse the dad-blamed wind was a-comin’ up some. We could hear the gentle lap-lap-lapin’ of waves agin’ the bass rig.

“Best move up yonder into the ol’ Gator Hole,” Sarge said. He held his finger skyward ‘n sniffed the air.

“Boys, I hate to say this, but we got us a bad wind a-comin’ this way. I’d say we best get up into the creek right quick, catch us some hawgs ‘n head back to the marina. I’d sho’ nuff hate to get caught way out here when that wind starts a-blowin’.” Harry just gived me a funny kinda look, like as if to say, I hain’t a-gonna let a li’l ol’ wind ruin my fishin’ trip.

A coupla minutes later we was a-sittin’ in the stumpiest lookin’ spot I ever did see. The water was the color of day-old coffee and we could see li’l shiner minners a-dancin’ their merry fandango on top.

“Looks like we come to the right place, boys!” said Sarge. “Go on, Harry, make you a cast over next to that there brushtop. I hung me a good’un over there ‘tother day!”

Nervously, oh so nervously, Harry flipped his scuppernong Jelly Worm agin’ the brushtop, barely scratchin’ the bark in a most tantalizin’ manner. Suddenly there was a humongous boil ‘n a swirl and poor Harry’s arms was almost jerked plum outa their sockets!

“Walll, don’t jus’ sit there like a dad-blamed ninnie, boy!” growled Sarge as the bass headed on out. “SET THE HOOK!!!”

Harry gathered what little sense he had and laid into that hawg. His wiry frame rattled ‘n his hawgin’ cap spun aroun’ on his head as a trophy Youfallinna Lake sow broke water. When she shook her enormous head, she spit up 12 pounds of minners and a cottonmouth as big around as my leg. “C’mon, Harry!” laughed Sarge. “She’s a good ‘un!”

Seconds later, 13 beautiful barrel-bellied pounds of pulsatin’ bass flesh lay at Harry’s feet. He’d done got what he come for.

Next thing we knowed, Sarge was startin’ the motor. “Hey, where we goin”?” Harry wondered. “I jus’ caught me a monster on my first cast! I’s aimin’ to break the lake record on this next one!”

“They ain’t a-gonna be no next one right now,” Sarge grumbled. “We best be headin’ on back. That wind’s a-comin’ up bad.”

Way up in the Gator Hole, we couldn’t tell how bad it was, but once we hit the main lake, me ‘n’ Ol’ Harry could see exactly what all them locals was talkin’ about.

Now, y’all been through rough water a few times, I imagine, but believe you me, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet. The crashin’ waves was marchin’ down the lake like soldiers. Not just ordinary whitecaps, neither, but them big 15-foot swells like you sees in them navy trainin’ films they runs after the football game on Sunday afternoon TV. Harry turned white as a sheet.

“Relax, boys!” said Sarge, a big ceegar butt clenched in his teeth for purposes of us havin’ confidence in him pullin’ us through this mess. “We only got six miles of this to go afore we gets to the marina!”

The pine trees along the banks was bein’ uprooted as “Hurricane Hawgjaw❞ passed overhead. The sky turned black ‘n a cold, drivin’ rain began to fall. When he’d ride up one of them swells, all our gear’d crash to the back of the boat. Then we’d head down like a surfer at Malibu, ‘n ever’thing’d crash to the bow! Poor Harry was hangin’ onto his trophy hawgjaw with one hand and the front seat pedestal with the other! I could hear “Victory At Sea” bein’ played way off yonder. Truly, this was our most frightenin’ experience ever, but Ol’ Sarge was keepin’ us on a straight course for home.

Then it happened. “Uh-oh!” Sarge gulped. “The dad-blame motor quit!“

Luckily we had our life jackets on – in fact, poor Harry was tryin’ to slip a Stearns around his big bass, but the dang thing kept a-floppin”! Somethin’ bad was gonna happen, I could feel it in my bones. One way I could tell was that poor Sarge had big tears a-rollin’ down his cheeks! You just somehow knows you is in a heap o’ trouble when yo’ guide’s a-cryin’.

“Hang on, boys!” I heard Sarge’s pitiful cry as the skyscraper-tall waves come a-crashin’ down on us. The boat turned real slow-like ‘n we took on three of them swells broadside. Next thing you know, we was in the drink. Disaster loomed close at hand.

Off in the distance we heard the glug-glug-glug of Sarge’s bass rig sinkin’ slowly in the west. Them humongous swells was crashin’ ever’ which way ‘n poor Harry bobbed up right alongside me ‘n Sarge. Minus his fish, of course.

Well, we bobbed around out there amongst the ocean-sized waves for a coupla minutes ’til a Coast Guard boat picked us up. We was a-shiverin’ ‘n a-shakin’ when they deposited us on the dock of the Chew ‘n Swallow Marina.

Harry fell to his knees ‘n kissed the greasy planks of the dock. “We made it!!!” he kept sayin’. I was a-might dazed as I gazed back out on the lake at that unbelievable rough water.

“Even Admiral Halsey wouldn’t tackle that lake,” I said as I wrung the water outa my socks. Harry was so glad to be back on dry land he didn’t say a word about losin’ his trophy bass. We dug in our wallets for Sarge’s guidin’ fee. He just shook his head.

“Y’all can give my money to the church of yo’ choice!” he said, shakin’ with fright. “I ain’t never goin’ out on that lake no mo”! Fact is, I’m fixin’ to go into town ‘n REINLIST!!!” 

As we was drivin’ outa town, headin’ back for Swamp Gas Corners, Harry started feelin‘ bad about losin‘ that there 13- pound sowbelly. “How’m I a-gonna face the Bass Club boys without no Over-Ten-Pound Bass?” he snivelled. “Specially that no-good Wilbur Wangle! He’ll wave that new hawg stick I’s a- gonna hafta buy him in my face ever’ time he sees me out on Belly Button Bayou!”

“Well, whatcha gonna do, Harry?” I groaned. “We almost got ourselves killed out on that confounded ocean. Now where you ‘spect to find a Ten–Pound Bass?”

Harry had a gleam in his eyeballs that told me we weren’t outfoxed yet. “Right in here, ol’ buddy!” he said slyly. He pointed to a Mann’s Bait catalog what he’d picked up over to the motel. On the back showed Tom Mann hisself standin’ next to a huge aquarium fulla leapin’ lunkers!

“Harry,” I groaned, “that there ‘quarium is for lookin’ purposes only. You cain’t go fishin‘ in there!”

“Wanna bet?” grinned Harry slyly.

“Don’t forget to sign the guest register boys!” a nice lady told us as we entered Mann’s Bait Company, what was on the outskirts of town.

“I cain’t believe I’s a-doin‘ this,” I said as Harry skulled around the aquarium in the lobby of the plant. “Sssh!” said Harry. “Now, you keep your eyeballs peeled ‘n I’ll proceed to catch me a hawg!”

It was the biggest bass tank I ever did see. About 40 million gallons, chock full of humongous leapin‘ lunker basses, ever’ one of which was over 10 pounds. Harry’d strung about 20 feet of 45–pound mono down his pantsleg, attached a scuppernong Jelly Worm to the end ‘n fed the ‘tother end up through a hole in his pocket. This was gonna be worth watchin’. 

“Okay, Harry. The coast is clear!” I said. Harry opened a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY and the next thing I knowed he was on a scaffold behind the tank, lookin’ down at them big basses swimmin’ below.

“You oughta see all them great ol’ big ‘uns in here, Charlie!” he whispered.

“Hurry up, you ding-dong!” I pleaded. “If’n we is caught, we’ll end up under the Youfallinna jail!”

Harry picked out the biggest bass in the tank and lowered his worm right out in front of her eyeballs. I guess I don’t hafta tell y’all what happened next.

KER-SPLASH! That bass hit the worm like the Eight-Fifteen to Jackson ‘n Harry was jerked plum outa his tennies, into the tank!

“Halllpp!” he gurgled as the huge basses inside crashed into the glass walls in fright. Harry’s prize was a-towin’ him around the tank, and he was bumpin’ his noggin‘ up agin’ ol’ cypress knees and such.

Then I heard footsteps and I up ‘n hid behind a huge cardboard cutout of a Little George what was standin’ in the lobby. A door opened, and it was Tom Mann.

“What in blazes is goin’ on here?” roared the irate Indian, who was fo’ sho’ goin’ on the warpath once he eyeballed poor Harry grinnin‘ back at him inside the tank.

“Don’t scalp me, Mr. Mann sir!” gurgled the unfortunate Harry. “I’s sorry! I won’t never go swimmin’ in yo’ tank no mo’!” Luckily for Ol’ Harry, I persuaded the lure magnate to help me fish poor Harry out the tank.

“I oughta scalp you boys,” said Tom, “but I’m gonna let y’all go this time. But if I ever catch you two in this town again.

“Don’t worry yo’ head about that none!” I called back as I gave Harry the bums rush to the truck. From the rear-view mirror, I could see ol’ Tom, lookin’ for all the world like the guy on the cover of one o’ them Big Chief note pads, shakin’ his head and laughin’fit to kill.

Yessir, I sho‘ do like this here hawg stick, Harry!” guffawed Wilbur Wangle as he passed his newly-won prize around Zonker’s Tavern for all the Bass Clubbers to see. “Right neighborly of you to buy it fo’ me. Guess that settles our bet, huh, Harry? Harry? Where is that boy, Charlie?”

Harry had found him a back booth and was scribblin’ one of his pomes on the back of the cardboard outa a Jelly Worm pack. He looked up at me with a big, sorrowful stare. I felt all choked up inside as I read the beautiful words out loud:

That Youfallinna Lake is a rough so-‘n-so

You best git off when them winds starts to blow

From now on I’ll wet my worm close to home . . And that thar’s the end o‘ this dad-blamed pome! – Ol’ Harry

Tired of bein’ outclassed by yo’ bassin’ buddies in their fancy-Dan bassin’ rigs? This here diagram proves that you don’t need money, just a li’l good ol’-fashioned country-fried Injun-newitty. Next time your ol’ lady gets on your about cleanin’ out the garage, keep your eyeballs peeled for these useful parts. Afore you know it, you’ll be the envy of all the other Bassmasters in yo’ Bass Club. Here’s how to make you a bassin’ boat what’ll outlast anything else on the lake.

A. Hull is made outa a used bath-tub, with or without ring. Be sure and cut off the feet to fit your trailer!

B. Trollin’ motor made outa an ol’ washin’ machine motor and agitater.

C. This may look like a Pro-Model seat pedestal, but it’s actually a birdbath.

D. You’ll fish in solid comfort in this pop-crate seat, plushly covered from a smelly pillow you can swipe from the Dew Drop Motel!

E. A soap dish? Wrong again! It’s a genuine plastic worm and lure holder/tray!

F. This here discarded ceilin’ fan makes a dandy electric outboard motor. Be sure and put you a Baggie around the “lower unit” to keep it waterproof.

G. Original equipment drain lug with double-duty Pro-Model retaining chain.

H. If you think this “tub” won’t float, take a peek at this: them’s Muscatel corks glued up under the rim for added up-right flotation.

I. Tournament-tested non-slip carpet by Rubbermaid.

Me ‘n’ Harry was a-sittin’ out the drippin’ November rain at rainsuits and brave the weather out on the Bayou, or to go over to the fillin’ station and eyeball the cockfights out back. But, somehow neither idee seemed quite as appealin’ as just a-sittin’ and a-slurpin’ suds to the tune of Porter Wagoner ‘n Miss Dolly on Zonker’s trusty five-plays-for-a-quarter jukebox. From the looks of things, some of the other Bass Clubbers felt the same dern way.

Mouse Mozzarella was bent on tryin’ to snag a Japanese pocket- knife outa Zonker’s ancient Arcadian claw machine, but the mo’ he cranked the dad-blamed crane in the direction of the elusive prize, the mo’ he just got him a scoopful of air.

“That polecat Zonker’s got the stuff glued down,” Mouse com- plained. “I done spent a hunnerd bucks worth of dimes in this con- founded contraption already ‘n the only thing I managed to scoop up was a pair of wax lips!”

“How else d’ya think I turn a profit in this here saloon?” snapped ol’ man Zonker. “Y’all owes me so much money on beers ‘n snackin’s, if’n I was ever to collect, I could spend the rest of my life baskin’ on the beach in How-Are-Ya!”

“Awww, you knows we means well, Zonk!” chided Harry. “Uh- by the way, how’s about fillin’ up this here glass one mo’ time? You can jus’ put it on my tab!” Harry’s tab was by now the size of the National Debt.

“Hey y’all!” cried Big Moe, blowin’ Cheeto fragments clean acrost the room like yeller shrapnel. “Give you a listen to this!”

Big Moe was a-readin’ from the new edition of the “Swamp Gas Corners Gazette,” hot off the press. As his Dixie drawl filled the air, all us Bass Clubbers listened silently: 

MAYOR SIGNS LAND DEVELOPMENT PACT

Swamp Gas Corners Mayor Cornelius Q. Bullthrower announced the sale of the 5,000 acre Slimy Slough area on the outskirts of town to the Rip ‘n Ream Land Development Company. “This marks a great day for the city of Swamp Gas Corners,” Mayor Bullthrower said during a news conference this morning at City Hall. “This useless tract of swamp, of no benefit to our good citizens, will be turned into a lovely private resort community by the fine folks at Rip ‘n Ream. The development will bring new life to our fair city’s economy, more jobs, a lower incidence of tooth decay among our fine young people, and a better more truly American way of life for us all!” Mayor Bullthrower said development plans would begin immediately. The Rip ‘n Ream Company is widely known as the developer of such projects as the Plastic Town shopping center in Onion City, and Wrinkle Estates retirement villa in Nowheresville. The firm also owns Amalgamated Strip Mines of America and the Zitburger chain of fast-food restaurants. 

“That’s all she says, boys,” said Big Moe sadly. “Looks like our bassin’ days up in the Slough is all but over!”

You coulda cut the silence with a dull fillet knife as the Bass Clubbers sat open-mouthed at the awful news. Finally Lefty LePieux, the club’s token Cajun, spoke. “Too bad about ol’ Slimy Slough,” he said. “We caught us some plenty good feeshes up there, you betcha. Crawfeesh thees beeg, too!”

“Seems like ever’ time folks has somethin’ o’ their own, in steps somebody else ‘n takes ‘er away,” pod grumbled Mouse. 

Yeah, them wilderness developin’ folks is the worse,” complained Dead-Eye Dingle. “Give ’em a tract of wild ‘n wooly real estate ‘n they’ll pave it fo’ sho’. It’s a dad-gum shame, that’s what it is!”

“NOW WAIT JUS A GOSH-DERN MIN- UTE!!!” cried Harry, bangin’ his fist down hard on the bar. “Whatsa matter with y’all?! Where’s that ol’ Swamp Gas Corners Bass Club fightin’ spirit?!”

“What you talkin’ ’bout Harry?” asked Big Moe. “You heard what ah jus’ read in the paper! The Mayor’s done signed over the Slough to that there land de-velopin’ company!”

“Big Moe’s right, Harry,” sighed Dead-Eye, chawin‘ the end off’n a fresh Covered Wagon ceegar. “You cain’t fight City Hall!“

“Let’s take us a ride over to the Slough ‘n eyeball the sityation a li’l closer,” Harry said. With that, we all rushed outa Zonker’s ‘n piled into the Lunker Express. I ground ‘er into gear and we headed out towards the gravel road leadin’ to Slimy Slough. A coupla minutes later, we was stopped dead at the entrance to the launchin’ area on the Slough. The Rip ‘n Ream folks had put up a big “No Trespassin”” sign and had circled the Slough with barbwire!

“They ain’t pussyfootin’ aroun’ none,” I said. “They’s gone ‘n shut down the Slough to ever’body in town!”

“We gotta go complain to the Mayor,” Crusty Popodopolus, our club president, said. “Lemme draw up a petition!”

“This hain’t no time for drawin’ no pitchurs,” Harry complained. “We gotta get our Slough back!”

“No, stupid,” Crusty explained. “I’ll write this here petition, we all signs it, ‘n maybe the Mayor’ll see us Bass Clubbers mean business.”

“I ain’t got no trust for them polyticians nohow,” Harry grunted. “But go ‘head ‘n draw ‘er up. Then we’ll see what happens!”

Next mornin’ found us gathered at the steps of City Hall, petition in hand. “You do the talkin’, Crusty,” Harry said. “You is wise to the ways o’ them crooked guys – bein’ a crook yo’sef!”

About 30 Bass Clubbers, a motley crew indeed, sidled into City Hall and was met by a wrinkled-up ol’ lady a-sittin’ at a desk. “Kin I he’p y’all?” she asked suspiciously.

“Yeah, we wanna see Mayor Bullthrower,” Crusty said. “We is the local Bass Club ‘n we wanna complain about him a-sellin’ Slimy Slough.”

“I’m afraid the Mayor will be tied up all day,” she snapped.

“We is fixin’ to tie him up ourselves!” Mouse growled.

“Yeah, with 50 feet of ski rope!” Big Moe added. The boys was a- gittin’ right hostile, and was a-raisin’ quite a ruckus in the office. Suddenly a door opened and there stood Mayor Bullthrower.

“What’s all this?” he demanded. “Who are these people, Gertrude?”

“We is the Swamp Gas Corners Bass Club, ‘n we is teed off plenty!” snapped Harry.

“About what?” wondered the Mayor.

“About you sellin’ our favert bassin’ hole to them Rip ‘n Ream folks,” Crusty complained.

“You mean Slimy Slough?” laughed the Mayor. “Why boys, you know that swamp is no good for nothin’ but breedin’ mosqui- toes!”

“That ‘n hawg–sized basses!” Big Moe drawled. “I caught me two seven pounders there only yesterday!”

“You is a dad-blame liar!” shouted Harry. “Them fish tweren’t a ounce over five!”

“Twere too!” said Big Moe. “Twere not!” retorted Harry.

“Y’all hush up!” cried Crusty, bangin’ Harry’s ‘n Big Moe’s heads together with a holler clang. “Now as we was a-sayin‘, Mayor, this here petition’s got all them whereases ‘n whatfor’s in it, but it means that we want our Slough back. And we want it now.“

“Sorry, gents,” said Mayor Bullthrower, straightenin’ the diamond horseshoe ring on his pinkie. “What’s done is done. That Slough is nothin’ but a nuisance and the town is glad to be rid of it! Them land development folks is a-fixin’ to bring in their bulldozers tomorrow and start clearin’ the shoreline for condominiums!”

“They knock all them trees down along shore ‘n that whole Slough is a-gonna be one big mud hole,” Crusty said angrily. “Not that we’ll give a dern about whether them rich folks has their own private muddy lake, you understand …”

The Mayor went into his office and emerged with a big contract in hand. “See this?” he growled. “I done signed it yesterday. The Rip ‘n Ream folks bought that their Slough for a good hunk of change. We can use that dough in the city treasury – it’ll mean untold benefits for our fine citizens!” 

“Yeah, ‘n a big raise for you, I suppose,” Harry sneered. “OK, mister Mayor, you got us on paper, but we ain’t through fightin’ yet!”

“Better watch your step, boys,” Mayor Bullthrower said. “I’d hate to have y’all do anything hasty and wind up in the clink!”

“We don’t know how’r when, Mister Mayor, but we gonna get our Slough back!” Crusty warned. And with that, we slammed the door and planned our next move.

Next day, bright ‘n early, we gathered at the fenced-off launchin’ ramp and waited for the bulldozers. “What we gonna do when them ‘dozers starts a-rollin’ in, Harry?” wondered Wilbur.

“We is gonna have our own kinda sit-in!” Harry said, rollin’ up the sleeves of his smelly ol’ work shirt. “Jus’ you wait ‘n see!”

We didn’t hafta wait long. Down the gravel road chugged more caterpillers than what covers a oak tree come autumn. “Hot dang, here they come!” cried Big Moe. We was all itchin’ for a fight. We stood our ground as the earth-movin’ equipment rolled up.

“Move aside, boys,” said a hulkin’ big graduate of the North Central Heavy Equipment Operators Institute. He looked like a Marlboro billboard: 50 feet tall ‘n covered with tattoos!

“Over my dead body,” Harry said, spittin’ a big stem outa his Days Work. He plopped hisself down Injun-style right smack in the path of them bulldozers. “Whatever you say, skinny!” said the ‘dozer driver. “C’mon, boys, let’s get to work!”

“Better move aside, Harry,” I cautioned. “Them gents mean business!” “Baloney!” cried Harry. “Let ’em drive over me! I’s mad!“

“Move aside, short stuff!” growled the guy on the bulldozer. “Me ‘n my boys is a-comin’ through!” With that, he shifted gears and chugged forward. We all up and run for our lives as the huge machinery clanked ‘n chugged towards us.

“Better get up, Harry!” I urged, a-tuggin’ at his sleeve. “You is fixin’ to get flattened!” Harry just winked at me. “You guys run if’n ya wants to,” he whispered. “I’s gonna stay right here. They hain’t a- gonna run me down. You wait ‘n see!”

So we all just sorta stood there helpless as the bulldozers got closer and closer. Harry just grinned and a li’l Days Work drool run down his chin. “I’s gonna go down in history for this,” he said. “I’s gonna be a hero!”

“Ya, but you know what kinda hero you is fixin’ to be, doncha?” I said. “C’mon, Harry, afore it’s too late!”

But it was too late. All we could hear was a sickenin’, crunchin’ sound, like when you breaks open a watermelon at the Labor Day picnic. “Harry!” cried Mouse. “Is you alive?”

“Wh-what happened?” came a pitiful dazed murmur. As the dust cleared, we spied a horrible sight: Poor Harry had been reduced to the thickness of a coconut macaroon! Big tractor tread marks indented his head, what had fortunately taken the brunt of the punishment.

“Glbbn, he gurgled, as he spit out his teeth like a mouthful of Chiclets. Wilbur Wangle chuckled some ‘n said, “We best bring Ol’ Harry down to the fillin’ station, boys. Looks like we gotta stick the air hose in his ear ‘n inflate the ol’ boy back up to normal pressure!”

A special emergency meetin’ of the Bass Club was called for the next night and ever’one was a  arguin’ ‘n carryin’ on as Crusty Popodopolus banged down the gavel for order. “C’mon, you polecats, settle down so’s we can get on with it!” Crusty said. “We gotta save Slimy Slough. Now I’s openin’ the floor for suggestions. Anybody got any idees?“

“Yeah, me!” said Harry through his bandages. “I think they’s somethin’ fishy goin’ on over this here Slough business, and I don’t mean them ten-pound sowbellies what’s a-lurkin’ under the lily pads!”

“What you gettin’ at, Harry?” asked Crusty.

“Well, seems to me the Mayor’s got him an exterior motive for a- sellin’ that swamp. You seen that new Cadillac he’s been tootin’ ’round town in? He didn’t get that on his salary!”

“You mean –” said Crusty.

“Yep,” Harry said. “I’d wager that Rip ‘n Ream outfit is givin’ the Mayor more kickbacks than a white jenny mule!”

“Makes sense to me,” Mouse Mozzarella said in betwixt nibbles on a large pepperoni pizza. His garlic breath floored six Bass Club members as he spoke. “But how we a-gonna prove it?”

“We gotta have evidence,” Crusty said. “If’n we could only prove ol’ Mayor Bullthrower was cashin’ in personal on this here deal, we’d get our Slough back for sure!” “Where you reckon this here evidence might be?” asked Wilbur Wangle.

“Locked up in City Hall somewheres,” Lefty LePieux offered. “But we fo’ sho’ cain’t git in his office to find it, you betcha!”

“Wait a minute!” said Harry. I recognized that sneaky tone in his voice sure as I’m a-sittin’ here. “S’pose we was to sneak in Mayor Bullthrower’s office ‘n find out what’s behind this deal once ‘n fer all?”

“Oh oh,” Crusty said, coverin’ his eyeballs. “I think Harry is fixin’ to get us Bass Clubbers involved in our own version of Watergate!”

Harry just laughed ‘n turned to me saying, “Charlie, you ‘n’ me is fixin’ to become the official Swamp Gas Corners Bass Club plumbers!” 

It was mighty risky, but me ‘n’ Harry figgered it was worth the chance. Harry had him a plan all figgered out: We was a-gonna pose as window washers ‘n sneak us a peek in the Mayor’s files when he tweren’t lookin’. Dressed in overalls and totin’ buckets and rags ‘n such, me ‘n’ Harry showed up at City Hall the next mornin’. “We is here to wash them winders,” Harry announced to the Mayor’s secretary.

“Who sent for you?” she wondered. “You ain’t the regular window washers what usually comes.””Well, uh, ya see “Harry stammered. I jumped right in to save him. “Uh, we is new in town ‘n just a-gittin’ our business off’n the ground, so to speak, and we is offerin’ our Grand Openin’ Special. We gonna clean them winders like they never been cleaned afore!”

“Awright, then, go on,” she said. “But don’t disturb the Mayor. He’s in an important business conference.”

Me ‘n‘ Harry got our ladders and went to work. Harry climbed up six stories (City Hall bein’ Swamp Gas Corner’s only skyscraper) and plunked the ladder right next to the Mayor’s window. He peeked in ‘n spied the ol’ goat hunkered over the tellyphone, no doubt makin’ deals with them Rip ‘n Ream folks.

“What’s he sayin’ now, Harry?” I asked from below. “Cain’t hear none,” Harry whispered. “Dern winder’s shut!”

“Well, open ‘er up, then!” I grumbled. I was a- gittin’ right skeptical about the whole deal and was anxious to get done with it.

Harry grabbed the winder handles and tugged ‘n heaved so’s he could crack ‘er open a li’l and hear the Mayor on the tellyphone. But no matter how he grunted and groaned, it wouldn’t budge. Harry decided to lean into the job a li’l more.

“Easy, Harry!” I shouted as the ladder buckled and lurched. But he’d gone ‘n done it! The ladder crashed to the ground, leavin’ Harry hangin’ onto the Mayor’s sixth-floor windersill by his fingertips!

“What’s goin’ on here!?” roared Mayor Bullthrower as he threw the window open to find out what all the commotion was outside. Needless to say, he was a might shocked to spy poor Harry a- flappin’ in the breeze. Harry managed a weak grin and mumbled, “Mornin’, Mr. Mayor! How’s tricks?”

“I’ll show you how tricks is, you nincompoop!” snarled the irate city father. I feared the worse for my bassin’ buddy. The mayor took out a box of stick matches and stuck one under each of Harry’s tremblin’ fingertips! 

HARRY’S LAW:
“POLITICIANS is sorta like VIENNIES: They’s slimy… They’s full of garbage… an’ they gives you INDIGESTION…”

“Hey, wait jus’ a dern minute!” gulped poor Harry as the Mayor lit each one in turn. Harry reminded me of a birthday cake for a 10- year-old kid as he gulped ‘n swallered his Days Work cud. Like dynamite fuses, them matches burned down. I just shut my eyes.

“Halllppppp!” came Harry’s sorry scream as he plummeted six stories ‘n landed on his rear in a cudzu patch.

“You forgot somethin,” called Mayor Bullthrower from above, and dumped Harry’s water bucket on his head. Harry wouldn’t be a- doin’ much sittin’ for the next few days, but at least we didn’t get throwed in jail for our efforts!

“You been down to the Slough lately?” Big Moe wondered as he downed another brew at Zonkers. “Got more dad–blamed excavatin’ ‘n buildin’ goin’ on there than I ever seen afore. If’n we a-gonna do somethin’ to save the Slough, we best do it quick!”

Our hopes for gettin’ our hawgin’ hole back looked right grim, I had to admit. But Harry was ready for one last go at it. “I’s fixin’ to give the Mayor a li’l present on behalf of the Bass Club!” he said with a gleam in his eyeballs.

“A present?!” I asked. “Why, that no-good skunk sold our prime hawgin’ locale to them land developers! And there you is talkin’ about givin’ him a present!”

“Easy ol’ buddy!” Harry said with a wink. “We is gonna fix the Mayor’s clock once ‘n for all!”

Next day, us Bass Clubbers marched into the Mayor’s office with a big package in hand. When the Mayor walked out, he could hardly believe his eyes. “Mr. Mayor, sir,” Crusty began, “us Bass Clubbers is sorry we done got upset over this here Slimy Slough deal. We realize now that we was in error, and all them there resort condymin-yums is just what this here town needs.

“That’s right neighborly of you, boys!” said the Mayor, obviously tickled.

“And to cee-ment the occasion, here’s you a li’l token of our esteem,” offered Crusty. “Open ‘er up, boys!”

The paper was tored away ‘n low and behold, there was an 11- pound hawgjaw mounted right nice on a slab of cypress driftwood by Flushbottom’s Taxidermy.

“How lovely!” cooed the Mayor. “I’ll treasure this gift always.” 

“Uh-where you want us to hang this here stuffed sowbelly, Mr. Mayor?” asked Crusty.

“Why, I don’t know, boys, where would you suggest?” The Mayor looked around the room.

“How about the Place of Honor!” suggested Harry right innocent-like. “Your office?”

“Capitol idea!” said the Mayor and we all marched in ‘n nailed ‘er up right next to Hizhoner’s desk. There was much handshakin”n such and then we left.

“That there petrified hawgjaw is a-gonna save the day,” Harry giggled once we was outside. “C’mon, let’s high-tail it over to the fillin’ station ‘n tune in to the Mayor Bullthrower Show!

Hush up, y’all!” yelled Mouse Mozarrella as we all rushed into Wilbur’s back room. Mouse had set up a tape recorder, speakers, wires ‘n such and was fiddlin’ with a receivin’ unit. He was makin’ some final adjustments, then his face lit up like a Christmas tree Bomber.

“You got him comin’ through yet?” asked Harry.

“Sho do!” grinned Mouse. “Listen to this!” He took off his earphones, flipped a switch, and suddenly Mayor Bullthrower’s voice filled the room. The ol’ goat was talkin’ to somebody on the tellyphone.

“Hello, Rip ‘n Ream Land Development Company? This here’s Mayor Bullthrower callin’. Lemme talk to my brother!”

“Holy bilge pumps!” gulped Harry. “His brother runs the dang place!” “Shhh! Listen!” said Mouse.

“Hello, Clarence?” came the Mayor’s voice over the speaker. “This here’s Cornelius. You never gonna guess what just happened. Them clowns from the Bass Club that was givin’ me some trouble over the Slimy Slough deal just walked into my office and gave me a present! A stuffed bass! Ain’t that a joke?”

“He ain’t a-gonna be laughin’ so hard once he finds out what that there bass is stuffed with,” I giggled. “A dad-blame microphone!“

“Now about the cash from that Slimy Slough sale . . .” The Mayor was fixin’ to fix his own wagon but good. “Yeah, that’s right, every lot you guys sell, I get my cut, just like we talked about. You already sold ten? Great! Yep, make it in small bills, 20’s and 50’s. Just leave it with my secretary!”

“That’s all we need, boys!” said Mouse triumphantly as he shut off the tape recorder. We all let out a big war-whoop of joy. “Now let’s mosey on down to City Hall and play this here tape for Mister Mayor. I gotta idee that we gonna be holdin’ our next Bass Club tournament at Slimy Slough!”

“Man, them great ol’ big ‘uns sho’was hittin’ today!” laughed Harry as we drove home from the tournament with an ice chest chock fulla lunkers. “Always did say that Slimy Slough was the best dern hawgin’ spot around!”

“Yeah, and from the looks of things, it’s a-gonna be aroun’ for quite a spell!” I said. “Y’know, Harry, it’s awful nice what common folks like us Bass Clubbers can do if’n we just sticks together. Right, ol’ buddy?”

Ol’ Harry just grinned real big, displayin’ his full array of Days Work-stained dentures.