ASHORE AT THE WRONG TIME 217 



For a moment the line did not move, then it cut the 

 water like a knife, causing a sharp hissing sound, while 

 the reel screamed and the rod bent like a tree in a 

 cyclone, the angler vainly pressing his thumb on the 

 brake. The boatman, recognizing the situation, turned 

 on the power, and in a moment the launch was racing 

 after the big game trying to save the line. Any one 

 who has played a fish of over two hundred pounds, 

 with rod and reel, well knows the futility of such an 

 attempt, and the feeling of helplessness which comes 

 over the angler when the line is racing, screaming, out, 

 and the force is seemingly irresistible. 



In a few moments the launch caught up or succeeded 

 in getting sufficient headway to enable the angler to 

 stop the rush of line, and then came the struggle. The 

 tackle was a t}^ical old-fashioned tuna rod of sixteen 

 ounces and a twenty-one-thread line tested to a break- 

 ing strain of forty-two pounds, and there was necessity 

 for caution. The strain was terrific, and the rod more 

 than once seemed on the point of bucklmg. The 

 shark was boring down into the sea, which practically 

 had no bottom, and as it felt the strong hand of the 

 angler it began a long, sweeping, rising side rush, which 

 brought it to the surface two hundred feet away, where 

 it lashed about tossing the spray in air, then surged 

 on in a great circle. 



It was now the angler's time, his hour, his minute, 

 and he worked at the big reel, taking in the line, the 

 launch meanwhile running in a smaller circle and 

 coming nearer the big game, which was manifestly 

 worried and winded by the strange strain upon it. 

 Time after time, the shark circled the boat, and at 

 last the boatman picked up the long gaff, holding it 



