THE BOOK OF THE TARPON 



game was on. We had fallen behind on the trip 

 down the river, but arrived in time to see my 

 friend's first strike. I heard him howl as the 

 most gorgeous creature he had ever seen shot 

 many feet in the air and he saw the bending of 

 his rod and heard the loud screech of his reel. 

 He turned the handle frantically. It was all he 

 could do, for the automatic holder took care, of 

 the rod, the automatic brake put on a drag nearly 

 to the limit of the strength of the line, and the 

 boatman held the stern of the craft toward the 

 fish through all its turnings and twis tings. 



Yet there was another thing the sportsman 

 could do. He could yell and yell he did with 

 earnestness every time his quarry came in sight. 

 The tarpon was big and powerful, and for three- 

 quarters of an hour dragged his tormentors up 

 and down and across the river. When it slowly 

 succumbed and was gently pulled beside the 

 boat, the excitement of the sportsman became 

 tragic. 



He held his breath while the boatman quietly 

 thrust the great steel gaff beneath the throat of 

 the silver king, and with a single pull sunk the 

 weapon deep and dragged a hundred and fifty 



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