Fighting a Swordfish at Night 15 



the angler in sight. That I did not jerk indi- 

 vidual horse-powers out of that engine is one 

 of the mysterious dispensations of Providence, 

 as it bucked, talked back, coughed, growled, bel- 

 lowed, and hissed oil at me from every pore and 

 point, while I jerked the lever out and slammed 

 it back, in the wild ride after Pinchot. Now 

 I could see him dimly bracing to it, pumping 

 with all his strength, gaining a foot to lose two, 

 literally hauling the skiff up over the flying 

 swordfish, and standing all the strain on the 

 tip of his rod and arms. That it was a good 

 and hard fight only those really know who have 

 tried swordfish or tuna. The fish never rests; 

 he fights until he is dead, until the end. When 

 you rest, he rests twice as fast, and to rest is 

 to lose. 



Pinchot, apparently, never let up on his reel- 

 ing and pumping, but, ever and anon, the fish 

 would start and dash away, towing the skiff at 

 a rate that forced me to put on full speed. Then, 

 all at once, I would hear a shout out of the 

 darkness. " Keep off, you 're on top of us ! " and 

 then I would jerk a few horse-powers out of 

 that long-suffering, patient, growling engine, 

 and slow down, hanging on in the seaway, to 

 catch a glimpse of Pinchot and Joe on the top 

 of a wave, shooting along behind that wild racing 

 steed. The sea was flying, the spume filling the 

 air as they fell on a wave. I could hear the 



