TALES OF FISHES 



great picture. He went down, only to leap again. 

 I reeled in the slack line and began to jerk at him 

 to torment him, and I got him to jumping and 

 threshing right near the boat. The sun was in the 

 faces of the cameras and that was bad. And as it 

 turned out not one of these exposures was good. 

 What a chance missed! But we did not know that 

 then, and we kept on tormenting him and snapping 

 pictures of his leaps. In this way, which was not 

 careless, but deliberate, I played with him until he 

 shook out the hook. Fifteen leaps was his record. 

 Then it was interesting to see how soon I could 

 raise another fish. I was on the qui vive for a while, 

 then settled back to the old expectant watchfulness. 

 And presently I was rewarded by that vibrating 

 rap at my bait. I stood up so the better to see. 

 The swells were just right and the sun was over my 

 shoulder. I spied the long, dark shape back of my 

 bait, saw it slide up and strike, felt the sharp rap — 

 and again. Then came the gentle tug. I let out 

 line, but he let go. Still I could see him plainly 

 when the swell was right. I began to jerk my 

 bait, to give it a jumping motion, as I had so often 

 done with flying-fish bait when after swordfish. 

 He sheered off, then turned with a rush, broadside 

 on, with his sail up. I saw him clearly, his whole 

 length, and he appeared blue and green and silver. 

 He took the bait and turned away from me, and 

 when I struck the hook into his jaw I felt that it 

 would stay. He was not a jumper — only breaking 

 clear twice. I could not make him leap. He 

 fought hard enough, however, and with that tackle 

 took thirty minutes to land. 



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