Tragic Fishing Moments 



weeds grew thin. Then the gray depths of the wa- 

 ters was haunted with a long, still grayer, swiftly 

 moving form. I snapped into action with heart beat- 

 ing hard against my breast. Seconds seemed hours 

 as that long gray form raced for the bait. He 

 reached it. Swirl. The water bulged in a glassy, 

 tub-sized mound, and with trembling hands I struck 

 back. The line went taut; the light rod whipped 

 over into a bow and I felt the hook sink into some- 

 thing live and solid. Then came the irresistible 

 weight of his rush as he frantically realized the 

 cheat. The line was fairly torn from the reel and 

 swept away from me, and I found myself at last at 

 grips with the savage King of Half-Moon Bay. 



Five, fifteen, twenty-five feet he sped away. Then 

 the point where the line met the water also raced 

 from me and the waters were split with a great 

 golden spotted form as he ploughed the surface of 

 the water into a stream of foam. Down he went in 

 a zigzag course, then to the surface in another fren- 

 zied run and down again. He slacked, and the line 

 almost lay still. With shaking hands I recovered 

 the first few feet of line. 



Docilely now he came under the strain of the rod 

 in strange contrast to the savage acrobatics of a mo- 

 ment before. I could make out the great vague 

 shadowy form and could see him plainly as he suf- 

 fered himself to be dragged along inert save for the 



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