222 THE SALT OF MY LIFE 



lucky as to catch the one fish of the evening, a 

 whiting-pout of perhaps three ounces, which had 

 cost me, all told, about fifty shillings. In one 

 respect, however, this solitary and sorry trophy 

 was worth the money, for it solved finally the 

 mystery of the brill. The local name for this 

 fish of many aliases is, it transpired, " whiting- 

 will/' abbreviated by the sanction of usage to 

 " will," and this it was that had moved my in- 

 formant to put me unintentionally on the track of 

 a fish that never was seen in Maldon outside of 

 the fishmonger's. This highly successful adven- 

 ture had an appropriate sequel in a dreadful walk 

 by lantern light over endless mud flats, and so, 

 through the sleeping town, to my refuge at the 

 " Ship." 



This preliminary discourse of failures great and 

 small is only by way of leading up to the greatest 

 of them all, the quest of Madeira tunny. It 

 happened thus : 



During the first month of the present year, the 

 Field published a most interesting account of 

 tunny-fishing with rod and line by Colonel Stead, 

 who had spent the winter at Funchal. He threw 

 out the suggestion that these splendid fish, which 

 are identical with the famous tuna of Sa 

 Catalina, might be caught on the rod by anyone 

 so enterprising as to try. There is a mood of 

 absorbent vanity on which a challenge so friendly 



