Having driven almost thirty hours, I decided to stay in South Carolina for a few days. The next morning, I purchased a three-day fishing license and bait   before heading to the lake. Opening my trunk, I carefully took out my fishing gear  , put it on the lake's edge, baited up and began to fish. "Good morning," said someone, walking up from behind me. Turning around, I saw a game warden   with a clip-board. "Good morning," I said, nodding my head. "Catch any fish?" he asked. "No sir, just relaxing and killing time." "Can I see your fishing license?" I handed him the license I had purchased at the bait shop. "Can I see your driver's license, too?" he requested. "I see the name on the driver's license is spelled Kiser and the name on the fishing license is Kaiser," said the warden. "The gentleman at the bait shop must have written it wrong," I told him. "Well, I'm afraid I'll have to write you up for fishing with an invalid license and take away your fishing gear." "You've got to be kidding," I responded, with a surprised look on my face. Sure enough I was written up and my fishing gear taken away. I was told that I would have to pay a fine and that my stuff would be sold at auction . I stood there almost in tears as he drove away. Those rods and reels were very special to me. I had used them over twenty years, fishing with my friends, who were now all dead. After returning home in Georgia, I telephoned South Carolina trying to explain the situation, but no one would listen. I was told that the Department of Fish and Game had a "zero tolerance" for fishing and hunting violations. Finally, in tears I paid the fine and gave up the fight. Nine months later, I received a letter. I had no idea who it was from as there was no return address. On a plain piece of notebook paper was written "Auction for the Department of Fish and Game held this Saturday at 11:00 am." On Saturday, at six in the morning I headed to South Carolina. By ten o'clock I had found the auction. There were numerous boats and piles upon piles of fishing equipment. All at once, there it was--my wonderful stuff all thrown in a pile as if it was worth nothing. As the auction began I took my seat. In my wallet was twenty-seven dollars. For more than an hour I waited for my property to be brought to the auction block. "We have three rods and reels here. I guess we will sell this as a unit," said the auctioneer. "50 dollars," yelled someone in the crowd. "51 dollars," yelled another man. I rose from my seat and walked out of the auction. "66 dollars," I heard as the bidding continued. "100 dollars," came another bid. The auction became silent. "100 dollars once, 100 dollars twice, 100 dollars three times. Sold for 100 dollars," went the auctioneer. I walked to my truck, got in and just sat there. Suddenly I heard something hit the side of my truck. Turning around, I saw the back of a man putting my three rods and reels into my truck. It was the same game warden who wrote me the ticket almost a year ago! As I got out of the truck he stuck out his hand and said, "I wasn't wrong. _ " I shook his hand, thanked him and drove away. I cried as I crossed the South Carolina Georgia state line. Why did the writer walk out of the auction while it was going on?
He realized he was unable to get back his fishing gear. He was too nervous to stay inside till the auction ended. He couldn't bear hearing people selling his fishing gear. He knew the game warden was waiting for him outside.