THE BOOK OF THE TARPON 



"Yes, you will and all the more, 'because of 

 this,' for now you know something of the 

 danger." 



I replaced the big tarpon hook with a small 

 spoon and as we paddled down the Charlotte 

 Harbor side of La Costa Island the Girl trolled. 

 Her first capture was a sea trout, so much like 

 our northern weakfish that I don't know the 

 difference between them. The next to strike 

 was a powerful fish that pulled like a mule and 

 ran out two hundred feet of line before she could 

 check it, and kept her nose to the grindstone for 

 half an hour, leaving her as exhausted as the fish 

 when we lifted it into the canoe. It was a chunky 

 channel bass, known to the cracker as red-fish, of 

 unusual size, for it pulled down the fisherman's 

 scales to the tune of fifteen pounds. 



"I don't want to fish any more to-day!" said 

 the Girl. 



"You've got an attack of nerves," I replied, 

 "and so have I. I prescribe the Bee Man of 

 Lacosta for both of us. He doesn't know what 

 nerves are and the humming around his hives 

 will put you to sleep." 



Fifteen minutes' paddling brought us to the 



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