Dec. 28, 1912 
FOREST AND STREAM 
811 
The Sand 
E VERYBODY along Cape Cod knows the 
sloop Hattie B., of Hyannisport, and 
everybody knows her captain, too. That 
I found out one day as we lay tossing on the 
great waves off Bishop’s and Clerk’s light¬ 
house. 
We were hauling in tautog, scaup and sea- 
bass, and merrily the big fellows were drum¬ 
ming their greetings in the bottom of the boat, 
when far off on the skyline, a black sloop ap¬ 
peared, stealing like a ghost-ship athwart the 
haze. 
Whether it was the fact that she had a new 
mainsail and an old jib, or whether it was her 
lay (for she sat low and broad on the water), 
I cannot say. But something about her at¬ 
tracted me strangely, and I asked the captain 
what boat that was, threading her way so 
silently, and yet so business-like, among the 
reefs and shoals. 
“Why, sir, that’s the Hattie B.,” said he, 
“everybody along Ca’ Cod knows her.” 
“Well,” said I, “the Hattie B., and what is 
she, a fisherman?” 
“Sharker.” 
“Sharker?” and I watched her with new 
interest, as she trimmed sail and disappeared 
to southward. 
Two days later, I was at the wharf waiting 
for the Hattie B., hired that day for a trip out 
to Horseshoe Shoal, sharking. For I had 
heard great tales of the huge monsters lying 
out there on the shoals, and though I had 
caught an occasional shark, as every fisherman 
alongshore will, I had never caught any size¬ 
able ones such as those here described. And 
that was exactly the one and only business of 
the Hattie B.—the catching of huge sharks. 
Her captain had told me the night before 
that I need bring neither tackle nor bait. None 
the less, being acquainted with the tackle 
furnished by these old wind-jammers, I had 
brought some of my own; among which was 
as fine a tarpon rod and reel as ever an artist in 
the fishing line would want to see. Also, I 
had gaffs and copper-wire lines, swivels, and all 
sorts of paraphernalia that go to make life in 
a southern fisherman’s hotel bearable. 
So eager was I, that long before the cap¬ 
tain flung the rope, I leaped aboard, and we 
were off, with a spanking breeze, straight 
southwest from Hyannisport. A bucket of 
menhaden, another of porgies, and still another 
of good-sized blackfish, caught my eye. 
“Bait,” said the Captain, interpreting my 
glance. 
We wound our way along the channels to 
make a good offing; and while the captain was 
busy with the wheel, I began to overhaul his 
tackle. A box of lines with ordinary cod 
hooks, presented itself, and of course I thought 
these were what he would use. But not so; 
fitted into boxes with a roller were long coils 
of half-inch rope, and dangling from the ends 
of these, a yard of cow chain, ending in a hook 
some eighteen inches long and made of quarter- 
inch steel. 
Mark you, I am not exaggerating, even 
Sharks and the 
By THOMAS TRAVIS 
though I have the fisherman’s license so to do. 
That was precisely the kind of chain with 
which, as a boy, I had been wont to tether 
Rena, the family cow; and that rope was pre¬ 
cisely the same heft, though tarred, as the rope 
with which I had been accustomed, as a boy, 
to restrain the roamings of that 1 same cow. 
Therefore, I looked at it with interest. Had 
not the hooks been barbed, I should have sup¬ 
posed they were part of the hoisting tackle of 
the sloop. But there was no mistaking the 
husiness-like barb, and no misunderstanding the 
polished and scored condition of the steel. 
These were real fish-hooks, and had seen real 
service. 
Having had several Cape Cod jokes played 
on me by the “simple” natives, I had become 
THE MAN-EATER. 
somewhat wary. So I carefully and surrepti¬ 
tiously stowed my beloved tarpon rod and reel 
in the cockpit, and joined the captain. 
The wind was making, and against the tide 
was kicking up somewhat of a sea. A schooner 
foamed by us on the port tack, her rail awash, 
and a smother of foam rolling from time to 
time across her. Here was my opportunity; 
for I had been on many much-lauded grounds, 
only to be told in explanation of our small 
catch, that the weather was a little windy, or 
that they never did bite with the tide as it was, 
or that this was an off season. 
“Captain,” said I, “it isn’t a very good day 
for sharking, is it?” 
To my surprise he answered cheerily, “Fine 
day, sir; couldn’t be better. They alius bites 
better with a sea runnin’. Why, Lo’d bless 
ya, I’ve been there on a ca’m day, an’ seen ’em 
a-cruisin’ around with their fins a-stickin’ out 
Man Eater 
o’ water, an’ never a bite. Oh, Lo’d, this is a 
fine day!” 
Evidently there was no intent to joke. His 
weather-beaten face was entirely serious. 
Could it be that for once I was about to get 
a delivery of goods equal to the advertisement? 
So we sat smoking, while the old salt pointed 
out to me the ranges, the buoys, the beacons 
and the lights. 
Soon the last glimpse of land sank below 
the sky line of the sea, and we were apparently 
out on the open ocean. Then the excuse came: 
“It’ll be pretty ha’d to find the spot on the 
ledge with this sea runnin’. Now if ’twas ca’m, 
I could put ya right there, sir; right on the 
spot.” 
My heart began to sink, for was not this 
the familiar language preliminary to a disap¬ 
pointment? “Ah well,” said I to myself, “I’ll 
have a nice sail anyhow.” 
“You might put out a line for bluefish, sir; 
they do git one or two here sometimes. Ya 
see, sir, I’m followin’ down this tide rip for 
five miles.” 
I looked about for the rip, but saw noth¬ 
ing more than a ripple such as a school of 
menhaden might make in a rough sea. None 
the less, I put out an eel-skin squid, and then I 
felt the rip. She was running like a mill race 
over the shoals, and out of sight of land, we 
had a flat three fathom of water only. For 
over an hour I trolled, while we tacked across 
the rip and back. But not a single strike re¬ 
warded me. So I was perfectly ready to haul 
in when the captain bade me, telling me we 
were almost there. 
Out came the lead, and with the boat steer¬ 
ing herself along the shoal, the captain took 
soundings, thus feeling his way. “Four fathom! 
We’re over the shoal. Stand by to go about. 
Hard-a-lea—so. Three fathom! Now we’re 
gittin’ there,” said the captain. “See that white 
bottom?”—and he pointed to a light-colored 
spot in the water—“That’s the place!” And 
as we came up, “Let her go!” he called to the 
ship’s boy, and we were anchored. 
I sat me down and waited. If there was 
any joke this time, I would not be so quick 
to bite. But the serious old man hauled out 
that cow-rope and chain, sliced a big blackfish 
in three pieces, jabbed the huge hook through 
one, and handed the line to me with the words, 
“Heave her over, and when ya git a bite, haul 
onto her like the devil.” 
I looked at the bait, sticking on the hook 
like a piece of beef on a butcher’s peg, with 
no attempt at concealing the barbed iron; then 
I looked at the captain, and dropped the thing 
overboard. I felt it ground, for the water was 
not more than three fathoms deep. Two 
minutes later a little jerk, twice repeated, came, 
and I twitched the line smartly as one would 
for cod. Then something began to walk away 
with the line—it was clearly up to me. So I 
pinched that half-inch rope and hauled. Three 
minutes later I had a sixty-pound sand-shark 
alongside. 
“So this is sharkin’,” said I to myself, not 
