TWO FIGHTS WITH SWORDFISH 



I sat down and struck him. He surged off, and we 

 all got ready to watch him leap. But he did not 

 show. 



He swam off, sounded, came up, rolled around, 

 went down again. But we did not get a look at 

 him. He fought like any other heavy swordfish. 



In one and one-half hours I pulled him close to 

 the boat, and we all saw him. But I did not get 

 a good look at him as he wove to and fro behind the 

 boat. 



Then he sounded. 



I began to work on him, and worked harder. He 

 seemed to get stronger all the time. 



"He feels like a broadbill, I tell you," I said to 

 Captain Dan. 



Dan shook his head, yet all the same he looked 

 dubious. 



Then began a slow, persistent, hard battle between 

 me and the fish, the severity of which I did not 

 realize at the time. In hours like those time has 

 wings. My hands grew hot. They itched, and I 

 wanted to remove the wet gloves. But I did not, 

 and sought to keep my mind off what had been half- 

 healed blisters. Neither the fish nor I made any 

 new moves, it all being plug on his part and give 

 and take on mine. Slowly and doggedly he worked 

 out toward the sea, and while the hours passed, just 

 as persistently he circled back. 



Captain Dan came to stand beside me, earnestly 

 watching the rod bend and the line stretch. He 

 shook his head. 



"That's a big Marlin and you've got him foul- 

 hooked," he asserted. This statement was made at 



63 



