Free Muskie Attack (An Up North Adventure) by G.M. Moore Page B

dangling from the ceiling offered the only light. Pike saw another bulb a few steps ahead and quickly went to it. The cord was too high, but after a few jumps, he managed to grab it and turn it on.
    Griffy and Pike let out a collective “wow” as they surveyed the room and its contents.
    “See,” Gil said smugly. “Told you.”
    The garage was packed with fishing, camping, and army supplies dating back to … well, way back. Griffy and Pike stood with their mouths agape as they stared at the boxes of tackle, racks of fishing poles, and bays of life jackets surrounding them. Knives, canteens, metal cookware, and all things related lined the shelves.
    Pike grabbed a large wooden muskie lure. “This is marked five cents!” he exclaimed in disbelief.
    Griffy and Pike exchanged quick smiles. Maybe, just maybe, their money would go a little further here.
    “Where did all this stuff come from?” Griffy asked.
    “Inventory,” Mr. Hanover replied as he made his way back to them, wiping his sweaty brow with a handkerchief. “I was a shopkeeper as a young man. Opened up toward the end of the Great Depression. Now that took some moxie, I’ll tell ya. Made a go of it too, but there was more money and fewer headaches in lumber. Always meant to reopen one day …” His voice trailed off, and he grew distant for a moment; then he snapped back. “Enough of that hoo-ha! It’s hot in here. Let’s get to finding you some gear. How big did you say this rogue muskie was?
    “They’re saying seventy pounds or more,” Griffy answered.
    “Well now, that’s bigger than the world record holder. Out on Lost Land Lake, you say?”
    The three nodded in agreement.
    “Haven’t heard tale of that size since the glory days back in the late forties and then only on the Flowage.” He paused for a moment and scratched his almost bald head. “You’re going to need a pole with strength and stamina. Double-eyed cane. Yup. That’s what you need.” And he shuffled off.
    The kids and Sadie followed him down one aisle, then another and then another. He finally stopped in front of a barrel filled with fishing poles of varying heights and widths.
    “The best muskie men—your Cal Johnsons, your Louis Sprays,” Mr. Hanover spoke as he sorted through the poles, “used something like this.” And he pulled out a six-foot-tall, two-inch thick cane rod. “None of that newfangled graphite. This’ll bring in the biggest, meanest fish.” He handed the rod to Pike, grabbed a nearby stool, and climbed up to reach one of the shelves behind him. “Along with this,” he said and threw two spools of fishing line down to Griffy and Gil. “That’s Bailey’s No. 5: the strongest, toughest line you’ll find.”
    Mr. Hanover climbed off the stool and nodded his head at Pike, Griffy, and Gil as if to say they were done.
    “Um, what about a reel?” Griffy asked impatiently. He was hot and sweaty and was ready to get out of there.
    “Yes, yes, yes,” Mr. Hanover replied hurriedly. “Can’t forget the reel. Very important. The right drag and all. You’ve got to give a muskie some line.”
    He stood there shaking his finger at the three of them as if the movement helped him to think.
    “A Kentucky reel should do nicely, and I don’t mean the dance,” he chuckled and shuffled off again.
    Not understanding his humor, the three kids giggled and shrugged as they followed him once more.
    Mr. Hanover turned down one aisle and then another, searching the shelves and yelling out the occasional “Confound it!”
    The three kids moved up and down the aisles with him, marveling at all merchandise they were passing and coughing through all the dust they were scattering. Sadie had disappeared.
    “It’s amazing he can find anything in here,” Griffy whispered.
    Finally, Mr. Hanover stopped. “Ah, here it is. The Kentucky reel. Considered by many to be the finest ever made.”
    Pike examined the reel, gave it a few turns, checked the drag control, and