A BOOK OF FISHING STORIES 



nimble Highland fling to keep away from its snake-like writh- 

 ings. The end of the grain-rope was fast to the painter, and 

 as the end came, the little dinghy was jerked ahead with a shock 

 that almost threw us overboard, and we were away on a race 

 behind as wild a steed as ever towed a boat. 



The swordfish towed us out into the Gulf several hundred 

 yards in the direction of Cuba ; then we laid on to the line 

 and pulled. This had the result of turning the fish in, and 

 after a number of leaps it headed inshore and swam stolidly 

 down the barrier. Our only chance of taking it — one chance 

 in a thousand — was to get it into shallow water, so we put the 

 oars overboard to stop the rush of the fish, and stood by to take 

 in slack in case the fish changed its direction. 



We were going due south, not fifty feet away from the teeth 

 of the barrier. Now the fish would slacken its pace, then would 

 rush forward, as though seized with a frenzy ; the dinghy would 

 bury her nose in the foam, and we would give line to save 

 the day. No one can impart in mere writing the excitement 

 of such contests, nor can any idea be formed of the strength 

 or endurance of the swordfish until you are fast to one, and, 

 single-handed, attempt to manipulate the rope and haul the 

 wild steed up to the boat. In half an hour the fish, with fre- 

 quent intermissions of leaping and thrashing the water into 

 foam, had towed us to the end of the barrier reef, and then it 

 began to sink into deeper water. I could not see that its 

 strength had failed in the slightest, though my man held his 

 oars overboard and judiciously offered as strong a protest as 

 possible. The moment had come when we must either turn 



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