284 Big Game Fishes 
school of small fry, and there was constant fear 
that the taut line would be cut by the dorsal fin 
of some fish. 
Two hundred feet of line was forced, coaxed, 
torn from the reel, before I really stopped this rois- 
tering plunger, and then it was give and take, a 
long battle in which the banner changed sides 
more than once; the fish making a splendid dis- 
play of its game and fighting qualities, which, to 
me at least, are utterly lost when the fish is taken 
with a hand-line after a fast-sailing boat, the typi- 
cal method, due, perhaps to the fact that the king- 
fish is found in the open sea or where the water 
is more likely to be rough. Slowly it came in, 
leaving silvery flashes against the deep blue of the 
Gulf, fighting every inch until the gaff struck it 
and Paublo lifted it, quivering, upward, his eyes 
standing out in amazement at the size of the fish 
and the mysterious power of the rod and thread- 
like line. 
“Why, mawster,” he said, “while you workin’ 
datcher wheel I could wif a cast-line [hand] ketch 
fo’ or five kingfish.” 
It was our first day’s fishing, and I suspect that 
Paublo thought that I “did not have all that be- 
longed to my upper works,” as the Conchs ex- 
