330 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 



This fellow approaches the bait with gutter-bred 

 caution and suspicion, and bears it hence ready to 

 drop it at an instant's notice. The fisherman feels 

 but a gentle nibble, and allows the line to slip 

 through his fingers. Wlien six feet of it are gone, 

 he stands up, and strikes ! The massive hook must 

 be driven home into a jaw that is hard and tough 

 as sole leather. Then the monster flies kelpward, 

 and must be turned if possible. He shows fair 

 speed, but is a sluggard compared to the tuna. 

 None the less he tugs and strains with right good 

 will, putting your biceps and triceps to the proof. 

 Give him slack and he escapes ; no fish that swims 

 can rid himself of a hook with greater ease than 

 he. Finally, the steady strain tells upon his craven 

 spirit, and he floats passively to his death. As he 

 lies alongside a stringer is passed through his gills 

 and out of his mouth and the ends made fast to 

 the ring in the stern sheets of the boat. Then the 

 boatman dispatches him with a single thrust of a 

 keen knife. Dying, he manifests those vast mus- 

 cular forces that properly exercised would have 

 given him life and freedom. With his broad tail 

 he churns the water into foam ; with every roll of 

 his gigantic body he threatens to overturn the 

 boat. It is magnificent, but it is not sport ! 



My largest black bass weighed three hundred and 

 twenty pounds. 



The charm of sea-fishing is cumulative. Apart 

 from the infinite variety of the sport itself, and 

 above it, is the mysterious spell of ocean, of which 

 so many men, from Ulysses to Louis Stevenson, 



