TALES OF FISHES 



smaller stream he leaped once more. But it was 

 only a ghost of his former efforts — a slow, weary 

 rise, showing he was tired. I could see it in the 

 weakening wag of his head. He no longer made the 

 line whistle. 



I began to recover the long line. I pumped and 

 reeled him closer. Reluctantly he came, not yet 

 broken in spirit, though his strength had sped. He 

 rolled at times with a shade of the old vigor, with a 

 pathetic manifestation of the temper that became 

 a hero. I could see the long, slender tip of his dorsal 

 fin, then his broad tail and finally the gleam of his 

 silver side. Closer he came and slowly circled around 

 the boat, eying me with great, accusing eyes. I 

 measured him with a fisherman's glance. What a 

 great fish! Seven feet, I calculated, at the very 

 least. 



At this triumphant moment I made a horrible 

 discovery. About six feet from the leader the 

 strands of the line had frayed, leaving only one thread 

 intact. My blood ran cold and the Clammy sweat 

 broke out on my brow. My empire was not won; 

 my first tarpon was as if he had never been. But 

 true to my fishing instincts, I held on morosely; 

 tenderly I handled him; with brooding care I riveted 

 my eye on the frail place in my line, and gently, 

 ever so gently, I began to lead the silver king 

 shoreward. Every smallest move of his tail meant 

 disaster to me, so when he moved it I let go of the 

 reel. Then I would have to coax him to swim back 

 again. 



The boat touched the bank. I stood up and 

 carefully headed my fish toward the shore, and slid 



