thunder, lightning, cloud, sunshine, rain and hail.  In less than an hour every member of the party—­and there were several ladies—­were soaked and drenched to the skin, but all were happy.  For, contrary to the assertions of the experts, every angler was having glorious success.  Each boat secured its full quota, 40 fish to each, and the catch averaged 70 pounds to a boat, scarcely a fish being pulled out that did not weigh over a pound.  Talk about luck; these people surely had it.”

Once again; I was out one day with Boat No. 14 (each boat has its own number), and the boatman told me the following story.  I know him well and his truthfulness is beyond question.  He had with him two well-known San Francisco gentlemen, whom I will name respectively, Rosenbaum and Rosenblatt.  They were out for the day.  For hours they “jerked” without success.  At last one turned to the other and said:  “Rosie, I’ve got a hunch that our luck’s going to change.  I’m going to count twenty and before I’m through we’ll each have a fish.”  Slowly he began to count, one,—­two,—­three.  Just as he counted fourteen, both men felt a strike, gave the fateful jerk, and pulled in a large fish, and from that moment their luck changed.

This is not the whole of the story, however.  Some days later the same boatman was out on the Nevada side with two gentlemen, who could not get a bite.  Merely to while away the time the boatman told the foregoing facts.  To his surprise and somewhat to his disgust at his own indiscretion in telling the story, one of the gentlemen began to count, and, believe it or not, he assures me that at the fateful fourteen, he gained a first-class strike, and continued to have success throughout the afternoon.

As he left the boat he turned to his companion and said:  “Well, that fourteen’s proved a lucky number.  I’m going right over to the roulette wheel to see what luck it will give me over there.”

My boatman friend added that as he heard nothing of any great winnings at the wheel that night, and Mr. N. looked rather quiet and sober the next day, he is afraid the luck did not last.  Needless to say that except to me, and then only in my capacity as a writer, the story has never been told.

Now, while the jerk-line method brings much joy to the heart of the successful and lucky amateur, the genuine disciple of Izaak Walton scorns this unsportsman-like method.  He comes earlier in the season, April, May, or June, or later, in September, and brings his rod and line, when the fish keep nearer to the shore in the pot-holes and rocky formations, and then angles with the fly.  It is only at these times, however, that he is at all likely to have any success, as the Tahoe trout does not generally rise to the fly.

Yet, strange to say, in all the smaller trout-stocked lakes of the region, Fallen Leaf, Cascade, Heather, Lily, Susie, Lucile, Grass, LeConte, Rock Bound, the Velmas, Angora, Echo, Tamarack, Lake of the Woods, Rainbow, Pit, Gilmore, Kalmia, Fontinalis, Eagle, Granite, and as many more, the trout are invariably caught with the fly, though the species most sought after is not the native Tahoe trout, but the eastern brook.  This is essentially fish for the genuine angler, and many are the tales—­true and otherwise—­told of the sport the capture of this fish has afforded in the region.