The Jack 169 
“ Swift speed crevallé over that watery plain, 
Swift over Indian River’s broad expanse. 
Swift where the ripples boil with finny hosts, 
Bright glittering they glance ; 
And when the angler’s spoon is over them cast, 
How fierce, how vigorous the fight for life ! 
Now in the deeps they plunge, now leap in air 
Till ends the unequal strife.” 
My light rod bent almost double and was 
tested in every fibre, as the long deep surges 
came thrilling up the line. Now my game had 
me fairly in the water, then I gained and backed 
up the sands, reeling when I could, giving, taking, 
drinking in the music of the reel, and anon catch- 
ing a glimpse of the stolid countenance of the 
Indian boatman, who followed my every move- 
ment with amazement at the mysterious power 
of what seemed to him a whip, to control so 
powerful a fish. Gradually I worked the game 
up the beach into shallow water, that my sport 
might not be interrupted by the sharks, and for 
perhaps fifteen minutes played and was played 
and nearly outgeneralled by the fish; then waist- 
deep in the water, where it had forced me to 
save the delicate line, I finally reeled it within 
reach. 
Every day in June, July, and August the roar 
