The Bluefish 155 
the topgallant yard of a three-master; at least, it 
cleared my head when it swung around. My rod 
weighed twenty-six ounces, was eight feet long, 
with a far too slender tip, and was rigged with a 
number twelve cuttyhunk line, which would pull 
a dead weight of twenty-two pounds. The skip- 
per had orders to luff at the strike and hold her 
in the wind until I brought the bluefish to gaff 
—this is a well-planned theory, and, as the boat- 
man said later on, “it looked all right.” Presently 
we were bounding over the water, the silvery bait 
flashing from wave to wave sixty feet behind. We 
had reached halfway over the “rip,” the little cat- 
boat flying along, lee scuppers under, with a big 
bone in her teeth, the skipper, with one hand on 
the tiller, and the other grasping the main-sheet, 
ready to slack away when the strike came — the 
reel screamed, “luff! luf-f-f-f-f!” shrilly, then madly, 
and up into the wind came the boat, caracoling, 
shaking her sails, and making a prodigious’ pro- 
test at being stopped in so ruthless a manner. 
But all was not well with me; the bluefish had 
made a prodigious rush, and aided by the speed 
of the boat, literally ran out my line, and, despite 
a desperate effort to save it, took line and tip. 
But there were more lines, more tips, and more 
