778 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[May is, 1909. 
the friction to two pounds, and using the 
thumb brake when extra pressure was required, 
I had much better success, 
“Well,” asked the proprietor that night, 
“find your tackle pretty light?” 
When I told him it seemed to me as easy to 
catch a tarpon on very light as on heavy tackle, 
he thought me crazy. After a little bantering 
I displayed a split bamboo rod, which, includ¬ 
ing the butt, is six feet in length and weighs 
nine ounces. A three-inch reel with handle 
drag 'and a 9-strand line completed the outfit. 
"What are-you going to do with that thing?” 
asked Mr. Poindexter, amid a general laugh at 
my expense. 
“Catch a tarpon or break it,” I flung back 
and hurried awaj', so as not to hear his answer. 
The little guide, whose name I found to be 
Pablo, and who is reputed to be the best fisher-i- 
man in Tampico, awoke me at five o’clock the 
next morning. By half past six we were in the 
launch, and nine, o’clock found us at the fishing 
ground. The fish were rising all around, as 
with, I confess, some misgivings I stepped into 
the small boat with the little rod. 
After a few- seconds’ still-fishing, there came 
the now-familiar strike, and a fish was hooked, 
tic made a sharp, snappy fight, but he was only 
about four feet m length, and in ten minutes 
we had him at the shore ready for gaffing. As 
we had no intention of keeping this fish, we 
were just as well pleased to see him jump and 
free himself. 
“Dat rod all right,” vouchsafed Pablo, and 
we went out for another attempt. Immediately 
a fish took the bait and jumped perfectly 
straight up not thirty feet away. He was a 
magnificent specimen, fully six feet long and 
heavily built. As, high in air, he shook him¬ 
self in a vain attempt to dislodge the hook from 
his gaping jaws, he seemed the very incarna¬ 
tion of savagery. 
“Here is a real test for the little rod,” I 
thought, and I thought truly. 
“Time, Pablo,” I said as soon as the demon 
at the further end of the line gave me a sec¬ 
ond’s breathing space. It was exactly half past 
nine. 
It is the prick of the hook that makes a 
tarpon jump. For obvious reasons, the more 
limber the rod, the less severe is the prick. 
Therefore, as was natural, after two jumps our 
friend the enemy settled down to a steady, 
under-w'ater fight. I had neglected to test the 
drag with the reel on the rod, and paid the 
penalty, for even wdien the rod was bent almost 
to the breaking point, the drag held. This 
necessitated letting go the handle and using 
the thumb brake whenever the strain began to 
be too great for the rod. Every little while 
the spinning handle would strike my fingers 
with painful results, and, what was worse, the 
frequent releasing of the strain was just so 
much rest for the fish. 
For half an hour it was an even struggle be¬ 
tween the fish and my abused thumb. No 
quarter was asked by either side, and none 
given. Several times we had our antagonist 
close to the boat, but on each occasion he took 
the bit in his teeth and by sheer strength drew 
away from us. 
Finally he headed straight down stream along 
the left-hand bank, and despite my best effiorts, 
pulled out yard after yard of line. I had a 
bottle of water within reach and kept wetting 
the line. A 9-strand line is very small, and 
when dry, a thumb brake pressed hard against 
it will cause it to “burn.” Using the water 
saved the line, but it also gave the fish many 
opportunities to pull further away. Try as I 
would, it was impossible to recover any line. 
AT SHORT RANGE. 
and finall}', when the fish jumped, it was at a 
distance of fully two hundred yards. 
Pablo saw a shark approaching our fish, so 
turning the boat, he rowed down stream at full 
speed while I reeled in as fast as possible. 
Whether it was due to the proximity of the 
boat or to the fact that the tarpon, in spite of 
A 5 k 2 -FOOT TARPON, HOOKED THROUGH THE BACK. 
forty-five minutes’ fighting, was still very active, 
I cannot say; at any rate, the shark temporarily 
disappeared. However, Pablo knew his business, 
and advised landing the tarpon as quickly as 
possible. Summoning all my will power, I 
compelled my tired hands and arms to redouble 
their efforts. For fifteen minutes more we 
forced the fighting over every inch of line. By 
that time the fish was so tired that we were 
able to keep him within a few feet of the boat. 
Suddenly a big shark- made a complete circle 
about us. By stamping our feet on the bottom 
of the boat we managed to keep him at a safe 
distance. This- slight relaxation of the struggle, 
however, cost me my tarpon, for, with a new 
lease of life, he made a dash of about ten yards, 
and the shark, as though shot from a cannon, 
rushed up and seized his prey. There were a 
few wild jerks on the line and, reeling in, I 
found that the heavj' chain connecting the hook 
with the wire leader had been broken. 
Then occurred one of the most spectacular 
things it has been my good fortune to witness. 
A second shark came up and tried to take the 
tarpon from the original captor. Instantly a 
fierce fight was under way. In their frenzy the 
boat was forgotten, and for fully two minutes 
the fiendish brutes in their mad struggle for 
possession of my tarpon, lashed the water all 
around us into foam. We had had a full hour 
of the most stubborn kind of fighting, with a 
disappointment at the end, but I felt amply re- 
]jaid. The fight itself was great fun. I was 
convinced that the little rod was capable of 
landing a big tarpon and, best of all, I learned 
something about a handle drag. The tarpon 
had taken us a mile down stream, so, while 
Pablo rowed, I ate a bite and took a much 
needed rest. 
My left hand was so bruised from the long, 
steady pull against the sharp edges of the bam¬ 
boo that I decided to use the heavy rod, which 
has a very large round handle above the reel, 
and, what was more important, against which 
a fish could not make such a fight. A fish 
promptly took the bait and made' a beautiful 
jump. He was really a tremendous fellow. No 
sooner had he fallen back into the water than 
he headed up stream very close to shore. After 
two or three mad rushes, each of which ended 
in a wild leap, he suddenly went to the bottom 
and stayed there. No amount of jerking on 
the line had any effect. Finally we took up a 
position directly above him and tried again. 
“Feels like a log,” I said. “Looks like tree,” 
answered Pablo. And, sad to relate, so it was. 
Salmon fashion, the fish had tangled the line 
in some obstruction, after which it had been 
an easy matter for him to break away and re¬ 
gain his freedom. 
“One more try, Pablo, and then lunch,” was 
all that was said. 
After affixing a new hook, it was only an 
instant before a fish took the bait. His first 
jump was so near the boat that he threw water 
all over us. Compared with the last one, this 
fish seemed rather small, but even with the 
heavy tackle it was utterly impossible to stop 
his rushes. After the one jump the fish did 
not show himself again, but kept on going to 
the bottom whence I would laboriously “pump” 
him to the surface—and down he would go 
again. It was forty minutes before we ran the 
boat ashore and prepared to land the fish. 
Then the mystery of his exceptionally hard fight 
was explained. The hook had not been 
swallowed, but was simply caught through the 
skin of the tarpon’s back about four inches be¬ 
hind his head. Handing the rod over to the 
guide, I seized the camera and waded ashore. 
Telling Pablo to get the fish right to the sur¬ 
face, I took the picture, which reveals the hook 
in its very remarkable position. This tarpon 
measured feet. Every angler has “hooked 
up” trout at one time or another, but I should 
never have believed that the skin of any fish 
