TALES OF FISHES 



the end of three hours and more. I did not agree. 

 Dan and I often had arguments. He always tackled 

 me when I was in some such situation as this — for 

 then, of course, he had the best of it. My brother 

 Rome was in the boat that day, an intensely inter- 

 ested observer. He had not as yet hooked a sword- 

 fish. 



"It's a German submarine!" he declared. 



My brother's wife and the other ladies with us on 

 board were inclined to favor my side; at least they 

 were sorry for the fish and said he must be very big. 



"Dan, I could tell a foul-hooked fish," I asserted, 

 positively. "This fellow is too alive— too limber. 

 He doesn't sag like a dead weight." 



"Well, if he's not foul-hooked, then you're all 

 in," replied the captain. 



Cheerful acquiescence is a desirable trait in any 

 one, especially an angler who aspires to things, but 

 that was left out in the ordering of my complex 

 disposition. However, to get angry makes a man 

 fight harder, and so it was with me. 



At the end of five hours Dan suggested putting 

 the harness on me. This contrivance, by the way, 

 is a thing of straps and buckles, and its use is to 

 fit over an angler's shoulders and to snap on the 

 rod. It helps him lift the fish, puts his shoulders 

 more into play, rests his arms. But I had never 

 worn one. I was afraid of it. 



"Suppose he pulls me overboard, with that on!" 

 I exclaimed. "He'll drown me!" 



"We'll hold on to you," replied Dan, cheerily, as 

 he strapped it around me. 



Later it turned out that I had exactly the right 



64 



