THE BORDER OF THE GLADES 



but the fly in the ointment was the language of 

 the Camera-man who followed in the little motor 

 boat. He couldn't pass the canoe and he couldn't 

 photograph through us ; he could see the fun, but 

 he couldn't picture it. The creek opened at last 

 into a little bay and I called back to the Camera- 

 man: 



"Your time has come. There's plenty of 

 room ahead." 



But it was the tarpon's time that had come, for 

 the fish swam under some roots that projected 

 from the bank of the creek where it joined the 

 bay and my goose was cooked. I passed my rod 

 to the captain and, taking the line in hand, thrust 

 my arm shoulder deep beneath the surface of the 

 water in an effort to free the line. I might have 

 succeeded but for the treachery of the little canoe 

 which rolled me out and buried me well under 

 the surface of the water. It was a source of 

 gratification to me that the captain went over- 

 board at the same time and I met his recrimina- 

 tions as we poured the water out of the canoe 

 by upbraiding him for capsizing the craft. 



The following day we exploited our tarpon 

 creek during all the hours when the camera could 



183 



