The White Sea-bass * 36 
from the high rocky ridge, and all nature seemed 
asleep. As my eyes rested on the picture, an 
ideal place to play a fish, the unexpected 
happened. Two, three, four, five fins came into 
view from behind a rocky point just as I had 
been figuring them, as though some one had 
given the cue and the finny actors had stepped 
out from the wings on to the scene, a tragedy in 
one act. They moved along with great delibera- 
tion, the big dorsals waving gently and the tips 
of the caudal far astern, so that it was an easy 
matter to construct the entire hidden fish. It 
was a school of white sea-bass, apparently none of 
which was under fifty pounds. On they came, 
not twenty feet from the beach, and, as I rose, 
their bulky forms were sharply outlined against 
the dark olive-hued bottom. 
My rod and line, baited with flying-fish, was 
lying in the small boat — note this premonition 
of coming fisherman’s luck. It took but a mo- 
ment to grasp it, and so deft and agile was the 
boatman that my bait, as he pulled offshore, 
crossed the school, dazzling the very eyes of the 
dignified strollers along this fishes’ rialto. One 
at least resented the intrusion. There was a 
swirl of waters, a boiling seething as the school 
