The Royal Catch 267 



So one angler slowly reels in, and watches the play of 

 his more fortunate companion. 



The boatman has stopped the launch at the sound 

 of the reel, and is now backing her slowly, so that the 

 angler may not lose all of his line. The slightest mis- 

 take, a fraction too much pressure on the thumb pad, a 

 little overdue excitement, a mild attack of buck or tuna 

 fever, any condition away from the normal, and the 

 game is up, as the line can be snapped by any jerk, and 

 is seemingly an absurd thing with which to fight so 

 powerful a fish. 



But this angler is an old tarpon fisherman. He has 

 seen the silver king vault into the empyrean, has seen 

 it flashing, coruscating, caracoling in the sunlight, so 

 that he seemed to be playing a fish in mid-air. He has 

 his nerves well in hand, and slips the butt of his rod 

 into the leather socket, and follows every move of the 

 game by the agate tip. Down it goes, fairly into the 

 water, as though struck by repeated blows. Zee-zeee- 

 zeee-e-e-e-e ! the music of the gods, the echo from the 

 strains in the dark, unfathomed caves, perhaps, where 

 this wild game has plunged. 



Every hundred feet of line is marked by a " telltale" 

 band of red silk, and the angler has watched three and 

 a green one, indicating fifty feet, slip through the silver 

 trumpet guides, and still the fish is going; yet but 

 a few seconds have passed. Four hundred feet, and a 

 little shower of leather filings has collected in the reel 

 near the pad. The launch is going at full speed 



