220 The Bonito 



day, as a French chum of mine used to term the 

 dawn. I had been watching some stripes of light 

 in the water alongside and ahead before daybreak, 

 and determined that I would put in the time between 

 daybreak and ' turn-to,' six o'clock, seeing whether 

 I could not invite one of the fish causing them, to 

 breakfast with me. So, hastily swallowing my coffee, 

 I seized my line and ran out to the flying-boom end, 

 where I started to unroll just as the first crimson 

 streamers in the sky began to be reflected in the darkling 

 bosom of the deep. The moment my bait touched 

 the water it was seized, and by another Skip-jack, 

 much to my delight. But though I stayed till the 

 last minute possible before 'turn-to ' and forfeited 

 my well-beloved smoke, never another came near 

 enough for me to see him, much less to be enticed 

 on to my hook. So I feel sure that in both cases my 

 capture was due to pure accident, and that ordinarily 

 the Skip- jack does not come close enough to a ship 

 to be caught, or if he does, fights shy of any lure the 

 fisherman may dangle over his head. 



