A Bit of Sea Fishing 159 



The water looked like oil. Far as eye could rove 

 there was not a semblance of a wave. Had it not 

 been for the long, slow swing like the wraith of 

 wave action common to that coast, we might as well 

 have been upon the oft-quoted mill-pond. 



For some time we steadily forged ahead under 

 the pilotage of one hairy sea-dog who constituted 

 the crew. Our chosen spot was over an ancient 

 wreck, all that is left of an Italian brig which found 

 her grave one awful night when walls of crashing 

 white sent her straining hull to swift destruction. 

 The old salts tell of grewsome things of that night 

 of piercing calls in foreign tongue, of bubbling 

 prayers, and of battered forms wallowing in fierce 

 undertow and flung high upon heartless sands as 

 the breakers wearied of their sport. No doubt 

 those tales are true; certain it is that the wreck 

 now affords fine fishing. 



Our craft anchored in proper position, and we 

 prepared for business. Hill shipped up a fine bam- 

 boo rod, while the rest of us were given handlines 

 which carried heavy sinkers, and two hooks each. 

 The bait consisted of clams. 



Of course the capture of the first fish was an 

 interesting matter. I felt a gentle nibble, made a 

 snatch, and felt I had something. Presently to the 

 surface came a couple of dark, prettily mottled fish. 

 As I hauled them aboard, Peaceman also landed one 

 of the same sort, and so the honor of first catch was 

 shared. 



Harry looked at my captives and remarked: 

 " And you wouldn't play draw ! You bet if I could 

 catch pairs like that I wouldn't miss a game." 



