THE BOOK OF THE TARPON 



The next tarpon really came to me and I was 

 playing him to the queen's taste when the 

 Camera-man called out: "Plates all used!" and 

 the jig for the morning was up. Returning to 

 our cruising boat, we made a hurried midday 

 meal while the plate-holders were refilled. I 

 would hardly have given a nickel for the guaran- 

 tee of a dozen tarpon in the afternoon, so sure 

 was I of the crop. 



I put out my line as we entered the pass and 

 a minute later the lure was seized, but it wasn't 

 a tarpon that got it. The fish gave several 

 queer, corkscrew leaps, vigorous enough to have 

 been the making of a salmon, though a tarpon 

 would have counted them a disgrace. It was a 

 red mackerel shark, the only one of its species 

 that jumps out of water. The six feet of piano 

 wire between the hook and line of my tackle 

 saved the hook but cost half an hour of time, for 

 it took all of that to conquer the brute, get him 

 ashore, and hammer out his life with a club. The 

 hard jaws of the tarpon will grind apart the line 

 of the fisherman in a few minutes, but the ser- 

 rated teeth of the shark will cut it as deftly as 

 Atropos snips the thread of human life. 



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