102 THE SALT OF MY LIFE 



to the gaff, and when I contemplate the thirteen 

 pounds of him lying across the bottom of the boat, 

 the result seems worth the tiring fight. The fun 

 is furious while it lasts. The other rod, handled 

 by a man who never caught a pollack before in 

 his life, accounts for a fifteen-pounder by the skin 

 of its teeth, for, as the gaff goes in, the hook comes 

 out, and George, in no mind to see a florin sink 

 out of reach, nearly falls overboard in his eager- 

 ness to secure the prize. Fourteen pollack, aggre- 

 gating probably 130 Ibs., nearly fill the well, and 

 then comes a lull, interrupted only by a terrific 

 pull on my line, which I next reel in, minus the 

 trace. Experience of such tricks has long since 

 taught us that only a shark can be responsible 

 and, quick as thought, George has a whole pilchard 

 on an unleaded line, which he has flung its whole 

 length over the stern. We keep the other hooks 

 in and wait on circumstances. Within ten minutes 

 the shark-line shows unmistakeable signs of having 

 done its work, and, with sundry expletives, so 

 mumbled in his beard that we may surely let them 

 pass for ancient Cornish, George hauls a great blue 

 shark, twenty or thirty pounds by the look of him, 

 up to the bow and there makes him fast in a run- 

 ning noose over the tail. Not for money would 

 we have that writhing azure pirate in the boat, 

 for the smell of a shark's blood on a hot August 

 day is not to be confused with that of the spice 



