ALBACORA 147 



"There he is! He's got it!" 



"Strike him," Lou commanded. Luis did — once, 

 twice, three times. 



"Reel fast," I shouted. "Keep the line taut." 



The marlin was solidly hooked, with no waiting, no 

 drop-back, nothing but grab and go. 



"This one won't get away," Luis promised. 



"There's nothing like beginner's luck," I said. 



"Don't give me that," Rivas said through his teeth. 

 "I know what I'm doing." 



Luis forgot his books, his measuring sticks and his 

 plankton tows. It was just Luis and the fish, and the 

 fish was flying and leaping away. 



Luis laid a restraining hand across the spinning line 

 of his reel. 



"Ow!" he yelled, as the flying line burned deep into 

 his skin. 



"What are you trying to do? Bust the line?" Lou 

 needled. 



"The marlin is sure to tire soon, Luis," I put in. 

 "Then you can go to work on him." 



About a half-hour later, Luis was reeling away, ac- 

 tually doing a very good job, and the fish was growing 

 so weary it looked as if he'd be an easy catch. But Walt 

 had other ideas. He waited until the marlin got so close 

 to the boat that the double line near the hook showed. 

 Then he gunned the boat so that it looked as though the 

 fish had gotten a second wind and run off. 



