TALES OF FISHES 



I fell into the chair, jammed the rod-butt into the 

 socket, and began to pump and wind. 



"Doc, you're hooked on and you've stopped him!" 

 boomed Dan. His face beamed. "Look at your 

 legs!" 



It became manifest then that my knees were wab- 

 bling, my feet puttering around, my whole lower 

 limbs shaking as if I had the palsy. I had lost con- 

 trol of my lower muscles. It was funny; it was 

 ridiculous. It showed just what was my state of 

 excitement. 



The kite fluttered down to the water. The kite- 

 line had not broken off, and this must add severely 

 to the strain on the fish. Not only had I stopped 

 the tuna, but soon I had him coming up, slowly 

 yet rather easily. He was directly under the boat. 

 When I had all save about one hundred feet of line 

 wound in the tuna anchored himself and would not 

 budge for fifteen minutes. Then again rather easily 

 he was raised fifty more feet. He acted like any 

 small, hard-fighting fish. 



"I've hooked a little one," I began. "That big 

 fellow missed the bait, and a small one grabbed 

 it." 



Dan would not say so, but he feared just that. 

 What miserable black luck! Almost I threw the 

 rod and reel overboard. Some sense, however, pre- 

 vented me from such an absurdity. And as I 

 worked the tuna closer and closer I grew absolutely 

 sick with disappointment. The only thing to do 

 was to haul this little fish in and go hunt up the 

 school. So I pumped and pulled. That half-hour 

 seemed endless and bad business altogether. Anger 



244 



