FLORIDA AND THE WEST INDIES 79 



the railroad siding overlooked the river, there 

 should be some sort of fishing to while away an 

 hour or two. The railway nigger met me at the 

 door of the eating-house. From the look of sur- 

 prise on his face, I gathered that he had been 

 deliberately stalking me as fair game, and I was 

 quite prepared to be exploited if he could dispel 

 my boredom. In reply to my angling queries, he 

 told me that large tarpon could be taken higher up 

 the river and that Punta Gorda had formerly been 

 a favourite centre for tarpon-fishing with the gorge 

 bait, a method that I do not favour. He had, how- 

 ever, a boat, and could get bait for smaller fish, 

 and we eventually struck a dollar bargain for him 

 to take me out at four. Every fisherman looks 

 forward and back with peculiar interest to his first 

 essay in strange waters, and, in happier circum- 

 stances, my first day's fishing in America would 

 have been an occasion. As it was, I still smarted 

 at the loss of my luggage and also under the lesson 

 in deportment from the oily knave in the saloon. 

 Yet when we pushed off from the steps, I found 

 myself keen enough. In the boat lay a bamboo 

 pole with tight line and a single hook, and for 

 bait he had brought a bucket full of a spratlike fish 

 called in those parts minnows or " shiners." 

 These were used dead, hooked by the tail, and a 

 bottle cork, about four feet from the hook, served 

 as a float. We drifted past some large building, 

 an ice factory, if memory serves me well, and then 

 he rested on the oars and asked me to swing out 

 the line. I did so ; down went the float, and I 

 stuck, only to recover the bare hook. This 

 happened four or five times in rapid succession 



