HUNTING WITH A HARPOON 



I stood motionless for minutes, expecting 

 every instant the wild dash of a frightened fish 

 and hoping for a flying shot when it came. As 

 I waited, the bank beside me as well as the tar- 

 pon seemed to glide slowly forward until the 

 bayonet fin was eight feet from my hand 

 and the harpoon which I threw with all my 

 strength struck beside it and, slipping between 

 the scales, was firmly lodged in the flesh of the 

 fish. 



After a single leap the tarpon started up the 

 river like an express train, and had made a hun- 

 dred yards before I had the line in my hands 

 with the skiff under full headway. Then came 

 a joyous, one-sided game. When the fish slack- 

 ened its gait I took in line and brought the skiff 

 nearer. From time to time the tarpon leaped 

 high into the air and started off on a new tack. 

 He carried us from one side to the other of the 

 beautiful Rodger's River; in the shade of broad 

 tamarind trees and beside towering Royal 

 palms; along vine-covered oak-bearing banks 

 and past a rotting plantation house, near the 

 solitary grave of its former owner. The river 

 was wide, free from snags, and the fish had no 



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