I bear down that much harder, as if I can make a fish bite through sheer doggedness. I'm positive there are smallmouths in here, probably at least one respectable 2-pounder. How could there not be? It's a presidential suite for brown bass, it has everything: current, shelter, shadows, a minibar stocked with minnows and crayfish, polished golf ball--size gravel lining the Jacuzzi, a good-night hellgrammite on each pillow. I know there are fish here. I tie on a firetiger popper, a 3/8-ounce black spinnerbait. Every offering comes back unmolested. Finally, I retie the white grub for a couple of desperation casts before leaving. On the very first throw comes a hit and a tiny, frantic tugging. Great. My labors have finally paid off with a one-round battle in the junior bantamweight division. A baby smallmouth, all of 4 inches long, has my hook protruding from its mouth. The little guy has more guts than brains, having smacked a lure its own size. I can't help but smile at how he fights. Nobody has told him he's little. He's game, slugging it out for all he's worth, telegraphing tight little punches up my line.