A BOOK OF FISHING STORIES 



my man rowed as fast as he could, I pulled on the rope, 

 and before the swordsman knew what was the matter, we 

 were on top of him. Seizing the line, we both hung on and 

 ducked the flying spume and the vicious sword, as the fish, 

 unable to sulk or plunge down (the water was but six feet 

 deep), seemed literally to stand on its tail and strike from side 

 to side, like a sawfish, blows that would have cut a man down ; 

 then it would fall over on its back and, with a mighty surge, 

 strike the dinghy a ponderous blow, and then roll over and 

 over. Suddenly it darted to one side, the line caught in the 

 rowlock, and in a second the dinghy was, despite our active 

 climbing on the weather rail, a third full of water. 



I am inclined to think that it is to this accident that I owe 

 the capture of that swordfish, as the boat was too heavy a load 

 to tow far. So we sat in the water, I holding the line, lying 

 almost on my back, while Bill tried to bail out the dinghy with 

 his hat. The swordfish made a final spurt, and being confused, 

 fortunately swam directly for the barrier, so that in a few 

 moments we were in three feet of water. Leaping over, we 

 laid back and held the big game that rushed ahead in its blind 

 rage and fear, and was soon floundering and struggling on the 

 coral rocks, and at low tide we had it hard and fast. 



This fish, as I remember it, was thirteen or fourteen feet 

 long, and may have weighed 300 or 400 lb. I took the head 

 and sword as a trophy, and Bill the skin. I thought we had 

 taken an unfair advantage of the game, as out in the open 

 Mexican Gulf, in deep water, we never could have stopped this 

 splendid fish, at least in so small a boat. On the other hand, 



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