he nears the boat, he darts about with 

 frantic rushes of wondrous speed. Now 

 he dashes away toward the boat's bow as 

 far off on the side as the line will allow, 

 laying himself over so that the light 

 gleams in a band from his side of silver 

 and gold. Now, downward into the green 

 depths he goes ; away goes the line under 

 the boat, and out he comes again behind, 

 breaking from the water with an upward 

 rush that throws him clear over the other 

 three lines. 



With much exertion, the four lines are 

 finally hauled in all together, though our 

 fingers smart well for it, as on the end of 

 each line a fish goes tearing about. In a 

 moment confusion reigns in the boat. 

 There is a gay medley of heads and tails ; 

 of shining, throbbing sides and tangled 

 lines ; of hands vainly feeling for a secure 

 hold, and feet vainly exploring for an 

 anchorage upon bouncing vibrations of 

 opalescence and pearl. For three Barra- 

 cuda and one Spanish Mackerel are on the 

 lines. This is not the Spanish Mackerel 



