where in the Gulf waters lay Poor Man's Rock.

But Poor Man's Rock it is. Greek and Japanese, Spaniard and Italian,
American and Canadian--and there are many of each--who follow the
silver-sided salmon when they run in the Gulf of Georgia, these know
that Poor Man's Rock lies half a cable south southwest of Point Old on
Squitty Island. Most of them know, too, why it is called Poor Man's
Rock.

Under certain conditions of sea and sky the Rock is as lonely and
forbidding a spot as ever a ship's timbers were broken upon. Point Old
thrusts out like the stubby thumb on a clenched first. The Rock and the
outer nib of the Point are haunted by quarreling flocks of gulls and
coots and the black Siwash duck with his stumpy wings and brilliant
yellow bill. The southeaster sends endless battalions of waves rolling
up there when it blows. These rear white heads over the Rock and burst
on the Point with shuddering impact and showers of spray. When the sky
is dull and gray, and the wind whips the stunted trees on the
Point--trees that lean inland with branches all twisted to the landward
side from pressure of many gales in their growing years--and the surf is
booming out its basso harmonies, the Rock is no place for a fisherman.
Even the gulls desert it then.

But in good weather, in the season, the blueback and spring salmon swim
in vast schools across the end of Squitty. They feed upon small fish,
baby herring, tiny darting atoms of finny life that swarm in countless
numbers. What these inch-long fishes feed upon no man knows, but they
begin to show in the Gulf early in spring. The water is alive with
them,--minute, darting streaks of silver. The salmon follow these
schools, pursuing, swallowing, eating to live. Seal and dogfish follow