Skinny-Dipping at Monster Lake by Bill Wallace Read Free Book Online Page A

white Styrofoam carton of worms. I didn’t even have a chance to ask him what the rope was for, when he snatched up the tin can where we had put the cut-up perch and headed for the lake.
    My minnow bucket shell sat in the edge of the water. The outside part—the shell—was like a round, tin bucket with a bail or handle. The inside part of the minnow bucket—the part with all the holes—fit or slid down inside the shell. It had the lid and a Styrofoam thing under the edge to keep it afloat. When we first got here, we took the inside part out, attached it with our metal stringer to the shell, and tossed it into the lake. All the little holes on the inside part let the water flow through. That way the minnows could breathe. It kept them alive a lot longer than if we just left it in the shell on the bank.
    I glanced down, making sure there was plenty of water inside the shell. Water kept the thing weighted down so the part with the holes and minnows wouldn’t float away. Pepper and Chet brought theirminnow buckets, too. All three were sitting in a row on the bank. The insides—the part with all the holes—glided and bobbed around in the shallows.
    Ted grabbed hold of the metal stringer on the handle of my bucket. He unsnapped it from the bail and hooked it on to the rope around his waist.
    I tied my rope around my waist. Ted handed me the tin can with the cut bait. Then . . .
    Ted stripped his jockey shorts off.
    I just stood there. Ted strolled a little ways into the lake. When I didn’t follow, he paused and glanced back at me.
    â€œI . . . I thought we were going to . . . ah . . . leave our . . . ah . . .” I stammered.
    Ted shrugged. “You know what wet underpants feel like? There’s no way I’m sitting around, all night, in soggy shorts. Come on.”
    I had a carton of worms in one hand and a tin can full of cut-up perch in the other. Slowly I put them on the ground. Mustering all my courage, I stuck my thumbs under the elastic and peeled them down.
    Behind me—up the hill—somebody whistled.
    â€œLook!” one of the other guys yelled. “Must be a little bunny rabbit down by the lake. All I can see is its shiny white cottontail.”
    Then somebody else started singing “HereComes Peter Cottontail.” Before I knew it, the whole bunch joined in on the song.
    I felt like a total idiot.
    Here I was with the cold, dark, murky lake on one side. And on the other side all the guys whistling catcalls and singing a song I hadn’t heard since second grade.
    Tin can full of cut bait in one hand and a Styrofoam carton of worms in the other, I took a deep breath and tromped out into the lake.
    The water was a lot colder than I expected. I stayed on my tiptoes for as long as I could, but it was no use.
    Chest deep in the cold lake, Ted waited at the first bank pole with a disgusted look on his face until I caught up with him.
    â€œTold you it wasn’t that bad.” He smiled and tried to hand me his can of shad gizzards. “Here, hold this while I put the cut bait on the hook.”
    â€œWhat am I supposed to hold it with—my teeth?”
    Ted looked at the carton of worms and the tin can I was holding.
    â€œGot a point.” He shrugged. “When we get back to the bank, we’re gonna have to reorganize. Next trip out, it’ll be dark and someone will have to carry a flashlight.”
    Holding the tin can full of shad gizzards under his chin, Ted grabbed hold of the string that dangled from the tip of the bankpole. When he did, he almost lost the can. He had to catch it, then hump his shoulder forward to trap the can between his shoulder and jaw.
    â€œAd’s ot da string ong enough so it dangles oose on the ottom.”
    â€œWhat?” I frowned.
    Ted let go of the string and took the can from between his shoulder and chin.
    â€œI said, ‘Dad’s got the