The Jack 165 
lagoon was a sheet of glass, a dead calm having 
taken possession of the gulf, as far as the eye 
could see. Here and there the knifelike fin 
of some vagrant shark cut the water, or a billfish 
went ricochetting along, the only disturbing 
elements; yet near the shore-line of a long 
attenuated key of white sand, the waters were 
beaten into foam, amid which scores of bodies 
were leaping. It was the jack, or cavally, the 
horse crevallé, as it is known from Cuba to the 
Carolinas and beyond, and the roar was made 
by a large school fiercely charging the ranks 
of a school of sardines, to capture which they 
sprang into the air, surged along the surface, 
all the while beating the water with their tails, 
creating a loud and peculiar sound called by 
my boatmen “beating”—a term which well ap- 
plied. With lusty strokes, Chief now sent the 
dinghy flying ahead, and in a few moments 
forced her into the midst of the wildest and 
most remarkable commotion I had ever wit- 
nessed. The fishes had moved inshore, and 
for two or three acres changed the water into 
a foaming sea. They were in the air by hun- 
dreds, their silvery sides glistening in the sun- 
light, their fins flashing golden yellow —a most 
