70 Big Game Fishes 
along shore, and a few moments later we are 
shoving off, seated in the stern of a wide-beamed 
yawl. She is rigged with a two-horse power 
engine, but the boatman rows out into the bay, 
stopping to fasten on the leaders as we overreel. 
This accomplished, he rows on while we unreel 
the entire line to soak it— an essential, as a dry 
line will burn off under the rush of a fish when 
the leather brake is applied. We are not out of 
the bay when a flying-fish is seen coming di- 
rectly toward us, then another, and still another, 
“ Look out, sir!” cries the boatman. 
Look out, indeed. Two fliers pass over the 
boat, my companion and I dodging them, catch- 
ing one, and then, not ten feet from us, a torpedo 
seems to explode, and the still water flies into the 
air a mass of gleaming foam. Quickly another 
rod is taken, the living flier hooked on and cast. 
We are surely caught unprepared, yet zeee-ee-zee ! 
a swirl of waters, a wail from the steel throat of 
the big reel, and the game is away. Gone? yes, 
gone, and if it must be acknowledged, two tuna 
men, who imagined they were cool under any 
circumstances, have been robbed of bait and one 
hundred feet of line, and all in a moment, now 
sit dumfounded, then laugh at this phase of 
