220 Recreations of a Sportsman 



moves along towing the flying-fish bait. There 

 is no waiting, at least to-day; no philosophical 

 discussion between strikes, as between us and 

 the shore, on the calm surface, is a ripple, a 

 gleam of gold, and, standing up, a procession 

 of game fishes is seen, none under three feet. 

 They move along until we tire at the count, the 

 procession is seemingly endless and has divided. 

 Some pass beneath us, others on the side; then 

 simultaneously the baits are seized, a strong bluff 

 strike coming that sends a thrill up line and 

 rod. The bait is a flying-fish eighteen inches 

 long, weighing at least a pound and a half; hence 

 a few seconds must be given the fish, during 

 which the thread-like line is paid out. If the 

 line is not jerked the fish will slowly move away, 

 but then the bait is supposed to be well taken, 

 the slack line is gathered by a quick turn of the 

 reel, and w r ith a strong, steady, swaying motion 

 of the rod, the sport is on. 



Never did tiger leap quicker than this fighter 

 of the tribe of Seriola, as with a single dash, 

 never to be mistaken, it has whirled a brazen 

 note into the air, heard by other boats far away, 

 and garnered two hundred feet of the cobweb- 

 like line to the music of its going. Z-e-e-e-e! 

 come the notes! Then the thumbstall of the 

 angler gently plays on the line; it tautens until 

 it is like the string of a harp, giving out musical 

 notes, a vibrating, tense, quivering cord three 



