The Democratic Press

Mr. Spoopendyke Goes A-Fishing, and Mrs. S. Goes With Him.

'Sav, my dear,' said Mr. Spoopendyke, with a social sort of a grin, 'how would you like to go fishing?'

'Wouldn't that be perfectly lovely!' squeaked Mrs. Spoopendyke. 'I never was fishing in my life, and I always wanted to try it. Where can we go?'

'Well, there are lots of places around Brooklyn. Last summer I saw boys catch a good many fish off the dock at the foot of State Street. We might go there.'

'Just the place,' conceded Mrs. Spoopendyke. 'Perhaps we can catch some sardines. I'll bet a spool of thread I get the first shad!' and in her glee Mrs. Spoopendyke waltzed across the room and back again.

Mr. Spoopendyke smiled pleasantly upon his wife, and started out into the yard to get some worms, while Mrs. Spoopendyke rigged herself up for the pending excursion.

'Got any fish-sticks?' she asked, as Mr. Spoopendyke returned, rather warm from his exercise.

'I've got some fishing rods, if that's what you mean,' replied Mr. Spoopendyke, 'but I could only find four worms.'

'Can't we break 'em in two?' inquired Mrs. Spoopendyke, anxiously.

'Could if we had a buzz saw,' grunted Mr. Spoopendyke. 'Come along if you're coming,' and thoroughly equipped for the expedition, Mr. and Mrs. Spoopendyke set out for the State street pier.

'How long before they bite?' asked Mrs. Spoopendyke, hoisting her hook out of the water, and examining the point of a worm her husband had impaled thereon.

'They'll probably bite at that as soon as they can borrow a step-ladder,' retorted Mr. Spoopendyke, eyeing the dangling hook. 'If you calculate to get any fish, you'd better let that thing down in the water.'

'Oh!' said Mrs. Spoopendyke, dropping the hook. 'Do you think I could catch a goldfish?' she inquired, after a pause.

'Hi! hold on! There, I lost him!' ejaculated Mr. Spoopendyke, firing his hook up toward the Heights.

'So did I!' chimed Mrs. Spoopendyke, as she fell over backward and shot her sinker into Mr. Spoopendyke's ear; 'I declare we both lost him!'

'What ye doing?' demanded Mr. Spoopendyke. 'What did ye lose? When I'm pulling in fish, you just sit still, will ye? Think my head's a fish pond? Drop it, I tell ye! drop it in the water. There! Now sit still and fish. Another time I'm pulling in a Spanish mackerel, you let things alone. You made me lose that fish.'

'You ought to have caught him,' said Mrs. Spoopendyke, soothingly; 'you fished splendidly for him.'

'I understand the business,' rejoined Mr. Spoopendyke, somewhat mollified. 'You see he didn't even get the bait,' big as he was.

'I'm glad of that, because we've only got three worms left. How I'd like to catch an oyster! Do you know I—'

'Hist! Sh-h-h! Be quiet now! I've got him! See me play him! Now, I'll fetch him!' and Mr. Spoopendyke reeled in until he landed an old boot.

'I didn't know that fish had burrs on, like a chestnut,' said Mrs. Spoopendyke, quivering with excitement. 'Crack him and let's see what he is.'

'Crack your grandmother!' snorted Mr. Spoopendyke, shying the boot up the pier. 'He wasn't good to eat, anyway. I'll get something—'

'What's the matter with my stick? Let go, you nasty thing! Here's another one! Quick!'

'Pull him in, can't ye? You've got a bite. Haul up!' cried Mr. Spoopendyke, trying to untangle himself from his line and help his wife. 'Lift him out of the water!'

'He won't let me,' squeaked Mrs. Spoopendyke, holding both arms out full length. 'Take him off! Scat! Go 'way, you monster!'

'Lift your pole straight up in the air!' shouted Mr. Spoopendyke. 'Hoist the dod-gasted thing right up!'

Mrs. Spoopendyke exerted herself and disclosed an eel, dangling.

'It's a rattlesnake!' she yelled. 'Don't go near him! Fire! fire! murder! police! police-e-e!'

'Hold your yawp, will ye?' bawled Mr. Spoopendyke. 'Get him over the dock so I can catch him! What ye holding him out there for? Waiting for him to dry? Stick that pole straight up in the air, I tell ye!'

Mrs. Spoopendyke threw the pole over her shoulder, and flopped the eel into Mr. Spoopendyke's countenance.

'Dod-gast the measly eel!' he howled as he spit it out. 'Stop waving that slam-basted lightning-rod like a flag, will ye? Hold it still, I say! Think you're a tree?'

'Don't touch him! Throw him overboard! He'll sting you to death!' gurgled Mrs. Spoopendyke, and forgetting that the pole still exercised an influence over the eelish end gave it a jerk, and it slipped through Mr. Spoopendyke's fingers. That gentleman made a spring for it, and swashed into the water.

'Hen! blab! baa! waggle, glu, hio, ga gaggle!' sputtered Mr. Spoopendyke, as some lightermen fished him out.

'Did you catch cold, dear?' inquired Mrs. Spoopendyke, with solicitude, as they made their way home.

'If I did, I landed it,' growled Mr. Spoopendyke, blowing mud like the exhaust of a tug.

'Anyway, I caught an eel, didn't I?' asked Mrs. Spoopendyke, carrying out a woman's idea of comforting a man with the only thing he don't want to hear about.

'Oh! you caught it!' ripped out Mr. Spoopendyke. 'You're a fish woman, you are. All you want now is some glass sides and bubbles running through you to be an aquarium! Another time we both go fishing, you stay home! You hear?'

And with this novel mathematical suggestion, Mr. Spoopendyke hunted himself to his domicile, and took a rum sweat.—Brooklyn Eagle.