Free The Ghost of Ernie P. by Betty Ren Wright

and the hardest to catch. That’s why it’s exciting to go after ’em. But they don’t bite very often, and when one does you have to do everything right, or else!”
    â€œI don’t even know what you’re talking about,” Jeff protested. “How’m I going to do everything right?”
    Art looked at him in surprise. “We aren’t going to do any fishing ourselves,” he said. “We’re just going to help out, okay?”
    â€œOkay,” Jeff said. “But how’ll I know if I’m making a mistake?”
    Art grinned. “Don’t worry,” he said, “my dad will tell you.”
    It was a warm day, with a gray, overcast sky. When they reached the landing area, Eagle Lake was gray, too, and broken by millions of tiny ripples.
    â€œJust the way I like it,” Mr. Patterson rumbled. “Not too calm. Breeze from the southwest.” He backed the trailer down to the water’s edge and slid the boat expertly into the water.
    â€œNow, you monkeys jump in and put on those life jackets,” he ordered, “while I park the car. Art, sit in the middle so you can row if I need you. Jeff, you go up front. You’re the net man.” He lifted a huge blue net from the trunk of the car and dropped it into the boat. “If we catch a musky, I’ll work him up to the boat, and you’ll net him.”
    â€œNet him!” Jeff exclaimed as the car moved away from the shore, dragging the empty trailer to a parking place. “How do I do that?”
    The net was attached to a wide metal ring with a long handle. Art seized the handle and waved the net over the water. “You dip way down, like this,” he demonstrated. “Be sure you go deep enough, so you’re under the fish. And then you lift up. Nothing to it.”
    Jeff took back the net and gave it a couple of test swings. He couldn’t imagine a fish big enough to need a net the size of this one. “Have you ever netted a musky?”
    â€œNo,” Art admitted, “but I’ve watched a few times.”
    â€œWell, then, you do it. I’ll row.”
    Art shook his head. “I’d better row,” he said quickly. “My dad likes the way I do it.”
    Jeff settled into the seat in the front of the boat, and the boys waited silently till Mr. Patterson returned and started the motor. “We’ll go along there.” He pointed to the far side of the lake. “Then Art takes over with the oars.”
    A half hour later they were gliding along the wooded shore, the only sound the squeak of the oars. Mr. Patterson stood in the rear of the boat, casting. Over and over his arm swung back, and the feathery lure sailed sixty feet or more across the water. At first, Jeff watched every cast, but as the minutes ticked by and nothing happened, he began to get drowsy.
    Art grinned at him. “I told you this would be a great way to relax.” He paused. “You sure you don’t want to tell me about those people who are giving you a hard time? Maybe my dad—”
    â€œ GOTCHA! ” Mr. Patterson gave a bellow of delight as a geyser erupted thirty feet from the boat. Jeff sat up straight, and Art nearly dropped an oar.
    â€œRow, you monkey, row!” Mr. Patterson shouted. “I’ve got him hooked and he’s a beauty. A real lunker! Row! We have to tire him out so we can get him into the boat. Get out in deep water! Keep away from the weeds!”
    Art leaned into the oars, and Jeff watched breathlessly the battle between the fisherman and the musky. Twice, the great fish leaped into the air in a flashing arc, then dived deep. Mr. Patterson let the musky run till it stopped, then reeled it back in, each time bringing it a little closer to the boat. Art rowed steadily, his face tense with excitement.
    â€œHe’s comin’! He’s comin’!” Mr. Patterson roared. “Get that net ready, boy.”
    Jeff