Feb. 22, 1913 
FOREST AND STREAM 
237 
This was more than the house could stand 
and a roar of laughter was the answer to his 
query. His embarrassment now was so apparent 
that it was painful to look upon, and it was 
several minutes before he spoke again. Then he 
said: “This ere aud’n’ce doan’ want no Hamlit. 
It wants Punch and Judy.” 
This brought down the house again, and 
we on the front bench broke for the door and 
soon the whole audience was out, following our 
lead. We strung out for the hotel, and soon 
there was a mile or more covered by laughing, 
rollicking people. The whole performance had 
reminded me strongly of the Duke and King in 
Mark Twain’s Huckleberry Fin. For several 
weeks later any one could cause a roar of laugh¬ 
ter at any time of day or night by merely say¬ 
ing “Ham-lit’s” around that hotel or town. 
But the shoe was on the other foot now, 
and I could realize how Mr. James McFadden 
felt that night. 
When the parson came up from his plunge, 
I was relieved to see he could swim, and when 
I saw him commence where he had left off be¬ 
fore he went down, I immediately recognized 
the fact that I was in bad. I began to cast 
about for a hiding place. I thought of going 
up to the point of Long Key about 500 yards 
away and trying my luck there. No sooner 
thought of than done. Snatching up my tackle 
and filling a bucket with live bait from our wire 
tank, I went over to shore and around to the 
back of the cottage to the kitchen and had the 
cook give me a little cold lunch and struck out 
for the point. 
I rigged up my new line, and to relieve my 
tortured mind and body, began fishing at once, 
and soon was having the best of good luck. The 
tide was rising fast now, and fish of all kinds 
were biting fine. To keep my bait alive I had 
submerged my bucket in the water’s edge. The 
sand was steep and shelving at this point, and 
I must move my bucket every few moments or 
the rapidly rising water would prevent my reach¬ 
ing it. I had been fishing for a couple of hours 
and the excitement of catching fish had relieved 
my sufferings from excessive dry grins. It was 
about the middle of the afternoon. I had just 
landed a nice bluefish and wanted a fresh bait. 
Going to the bucket, I stooped over it, after 
moving it back, and securing a nice sardine, im¬ 
paled him on my hook. While fastening the 
top of the bucket, I let him dangle back in the 
water, and as my line was reeled up short, my 
pole being held between my knees in a perpen¬ 
dicular position, as it took both hands to handle 
the bucket, the bait was not more than six inches 
from my face, just on the top of the water. 
Suddenly a whole barrel of water came into my 
face, and all over m}'' body, drenching me to the 
skin. I rolled over backward on the sand, and 
the first thought that entered my head was that 
my tormentors had played another mean trick 
on me, and was sure of it when looking back¬ 
ward I saw them ranged in a row about twenty 
feet in my rear. I was ready to fight now, but 
on glancing down at my reel, which was lying 
at my feet, I saw the handle digging up the 
sand and the barrel revolving rapidly and the 
line running out fast. 
Jumping for it I was soon playing a good 
fish. 
Fish feed in close to shore on rising water. 
The one I now had proved to be a twenty-pound 
redfish. He had been attracted to my minnow 
and had struck in and played the mean joke, but 
he paid for it with his life. I think he was a 
relative of the parson’s. If I could have strung 
the parson on the same line with him, I would 
have been more than pleased. I could have en¬ 
joyed this catch very much, but for that bunch 
of howling and screeching yaps in my rear. 
My bait bucket was gone and I had too much 
objectionable company to want to stay on that 
point any longer, so I made another move back 
to the dock, leaving my tormentors in posses¬ 
sion. I would fish out the day now or “bust.” 
I got down on the bottom again and soon had a 
fish. He was a good one, just about my size. 
We had it nip and tuck for the good part of 
an hour. He put up a good argument, but I 
finally won and later wished I hadn’t. 
About the time I got him out, that bunch 
of “galoots” were back at the cottage. They 
were a weak looking lot. They had about 
laughed themselves into dish "rags. 
My fish proved to be a fifty-pound shark and 
when I laid him down on the boards in triumph, 
the parson weakly called over to hold him up 
and let them see what it was. I placed my right 
hand on the top of the wire snood to raise up 
the fish. He was lying on his side. As I started 
to lift up and began to pull on the wire, he gave 
a tremendous flop with his tail on the boards 
and raised his head to my hand, taking it into 
his mouth in less than a second. He snapped 
me just like a puppy dog. I instinctively jerked 
against his action, but too late, as one tooth 
went through the nail of my middle finger, and 
my index finger fared but little better. In jerk¬ 
ing away from him, I tore out his hold and 
made ugly and painful wounds. 
I was up against it again, but this was no 
laughing matter. The blood was streaming from 
the cuts and I was in agony. I fell over on 
the bench about the time my friends reached me. 
I fainted and lay still. They dressed my wounds 
as best they could, and with a little turpentine 
they found in the cottage, they alleviated the 
pain. They laid me out on my bed and then a 
question arose among them—was a shark bite 
poisonous? None were certain, but the cook, 
who was a Southern darkey, was sure of it, 
but lost his head in the excitement, and did 
not remember what he had heard was best to 
do for it. 
It was decided that I must be got to 
town at once for medical attention. The boat 
was manned and my baggage loaded in. All 
hands decided they would go with me. I was 
made as comfortable as possible in the stern of 
the boat and soon fell asleep. It was late in 
the afternoon when we started, and I knew no 
more until I was awakened about 9 o’clock that 
night by loud talking. 
There was a colloquy on between the cook 
and the parson. I heard the cook say: “Boss, 
ef yer doan go back an’ git dat piece ob skin, 
dis ere gen'man goner die—sho.” 
“Flow do you apply the skin when you get 
it, Mose?” asked the parson. 
“Yer takes a piece ob hit, erbout ez big as 
yer han’, an’ rubs hit all ober der body,” an¬ 
swered the cook. 
“Which side of the skin do you use? The 
inside or the outside?” 
“De outside.” 
“Why, Mose, the outside of a shark’s skin 
is like the coarsest of sandpaper!” 
“I know hit, boss, but dat’s just hit. Hit 
breaks de skin all ober, an’ lets de pisen out.” 
There was a general laugh at the wisdom 
of the cornered darkey, and the parson satisfied 
him by saying that a piece of coarse sandpaper 
would do just as well, and we could get that in 
St. Petersburg. I thanked God that I had not 
been on that lonely island with Mose alone when 
the accident happened. This conversation sent 
a few cold chills chasing up and down my spine, 
and was rather discomforting, but I knew the 
Southern darkey and his superstitions so well 
I did not worry much. After thinking about it 
