Big Game at Sea 



were a mile and a half offshore, and as the boat 

 refused to float with us all we pushed my companion 

 onto the bottom and the boatman and I started to 

 swim for our launch nearly a fourth of a mile distant. 

 I got ahead, and as the tender came up, the boatman's 

 wife, who was aboard, screamed that he was drown- 

 ing. I turned and swam back, and in a second or 

 two up he came. "What's the matter?" I cried, 

 amazed at the spectacle. 



" I've got your tuna, sir," and out of sight he went 

 again. Three times I saw this fish, still on the gaff, 

 plunge down and carry the plucky fellow out of 

 sight. Gardner had never lost his gaff. If there 

 are angling heroes wanted for the "hall of fame," I 

 commend my boatman, Jim Gardner. 



I was soon hauled aboard the tender, a process 

 which took two or three men to accomplish, owing 

 to my lead-like corduroy hunting suit. In the mean- 

 time Gardner had his legs about the propeller. As 

 the men held me over the stern I reached down, run- 

 ning my arm deep into the tuna's throat, took it by 

 the gills and gave the word; the men hauled upon 

 my legs, and I the tuna, and dropped it safe in the 

 cockpit; dead? out- fought? never! It was still an 

 animated whirlwind, and drove everyone out of the 

 pit by its wild leaps and lateral swings. I never 

 killed a fish with more regret. It deserved to live, 

 a type of the hard fighters, fighting immortals of the 

 tuna tribe; but it was a prize, the first fish of the 



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