TARPON FISHING. 
Day was just breaking when Will and I pushed our boat from the 
wharf. It was a typical Florida spring morning, with the usual 
gorgeous cloud effects so common in these latitudes; the whole 
eastern sky was banked with crimson clouds shading softly into the 
pale blue higher up where the cloud banks suddenly ceased. Gradu- 
ally the changing colors paled and paled, fading into dull gray and 
white as the sun rose higher and showed his fiery edge over the tops 
of the low mangroves on the key opposite. The bay was as smooth 
as a pond; the water being scarcely rippled by the light breeze 
which bore to us the faint chattering and whistling of a flock of 
blackbirds on the keys opposite, and we could distinctly hear the 
voices of two men in a boat far over near the other shore, a mile or 
more away. 
We passed several low oyster bars, which are usually covered at 
high tide, and just beyond one of these Will stopped rowing and, 
nodding his head towards the reef, said: ‘‘ Do you see the deep 
water just to the south of that bar? That is where I saw several 
tarpon yesterday — and there goes one now.” 
I looked quickly in the direction he was pointing and caught a 
momentary glimpse of a large fin cutting the mirror-like surface of 
the water; a dull gleam, and then all was quiet save for the gradually 
widening ripples which marked the spot where the great fish had 
risen. 
“* Quick,” cried Will; ‘‘ throw well out ahead of that ripple and if 
he takes it give him plenty of time before you strike.” 
Swinging the heavy rod backwards, I made a strong cast and the 
line, weighted with half of a mullet, ran freely from the reel. It was 
a good throw and the piece of fish struck the water not twenty feet 
from the spot where the tarpon had risen. Loosening the line and 
seeing that it ran freely under the leather thumb check, I waited. 
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