CHAPTER XVIII 
THE KINGFISH 
“ By the way, old Cotton’s instructions, by which I hoped to 
qualify myself for the gentle society of anglers, are not worth a 
farthing for this meridian.” — Redgaunilet. 
THE deadly monotony of a “dead calm” in the 
tropics can be appreciated only by those who 
have sailed the seas south of the tropic of Cancer 
where the sun’s humor is fierce and uncompro- 
mising, and the wind god passes his summer days 
in a long siesta. Our trim craft, that could show 
her heels to any vessel on the reef, had literally 
been caught napping. The wind had gradually 
dropped until we floated on a sea of glass, the 
only motion on its surface being the long swell, 
the remnant of some recent gale, which served to 
swing the booms from side to side,—their jaws 
uttering weird moans, shrieks, and wailings, as 
they gripped the dry masts, which did not add to 
the pleasantness of the situation. The heat was 
pitiless, and the water pouring over the decks out 
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