FOREST AND STREAM. 
169 
Aug. 1, 1908.] 
11 ole Moon Eye teh try foah. Yaas, Marse Hen- 
j nery, dat ole hoodoo dun libbin' yet. He de 
r, ole debbel hese'f. Why, I’se dun shot heem 
with ebery kin’ er bullet I cud buy or hern tell 
K on. Yessah, des las’ cotton plantin’ taime* I 
dun cotch heem out by de top ob he slide er 
[ sunnin’. I’d dun gotter ole Zeke, de conjur 
manf up teh de Pope place teh maik er bullet 
outen two silber dollahs dat Aunt Lidy dun 
foun’ by de hangman oak near de ole grabe 
yard, en he put er conjur spell on hit. So I 
dun loaded de ole musket wid erbout four fin¬ 
gers er powder, en I crope up mighty keerful, 
en dah, ole Mooneye wuz ersleep, I t’ink, but 
jes as I sights feh hees eye hole he jes open 
hees eye en kin’ er bar he teef en grin. I’se 
kin’ er discomforted, feh I’se mighty clus teh 
’im, but I dun blaze erway, an dat ole sinnah 
jes giv’ one flop er hees tail en go eenteh de 
water kerchunk. En naixt t’ing I knows dar 
he ees at de bottom eh de slide er startin’ up 
ergin, an’ de onliest mark I ken see on hees 
haid wah er kin’ er white spot, des as eef dat 
bullet dun glance. Dis niggah didn’t hatter wait 
no longer. No, suh; dat ole Mooneye kin trab- 
bel es fas’ on lan’ es he kin swim w’en he mad, 
en dis niggah doan’t stop teh ast heem how he 
feels. No, sah; no, sah! Heem mouf too big. 
How beeg heem ees? Why, heem monstous 
| ’bout twenty feet, sah. Heem de gret, gret, 
gran’daddy ob all dees heah ’gators. Why, hit 
wuz de bigges’ ’gator roun’ w’en Marse Hen¬ 
nery en me fus hunt een dis marsh. How many 
y’ars ago wuz dat, sah? Yaas, sah, dun gone 
obah twenty. 
‘‘Look! Marse Hennery, ef dat ain’t two on 
dem; putty good size, too. Min’, now, we-alls 
kin git one ob dem, en mebbe bofe.” 
The two saurians were crossing and recross¬ 
ing the rays of light cast by the jacks, and slowly 
approaching the flat, but ere shooting distance 
was attained one suddenly sank from sight, and 
in the fear that the second might follow, the 
judge fired hastily. 
The water was instantly churned into a 
smother of foam, and despite the best efforts 
of Marse Hennery and Cauge, before they could 
spike him the lizard sank. 
“Dat wuz suah bad luck, sah. Yer got heem 
right, but mos’ de charge dun heet him low en 
miss he brain; he dun foun’ hees hole en crawl 
een, so he nebber goane float ertall. 
“Marse Hennery, dar’s Hog Island. Reckum 
* w T e-alls bettah lan’ dis ’gator we towdn’ en eat 
er snack, en mebbe w’en w^e all start back we 
kin geet ernuther one. Moonrise dun cum late 
ternight; hit’s een de las’ quartah.” 
Shoving the boat’s nose up on the shell beach 
of the island—for it was wholly composed of 
small clam shells, a mound of several feet ele- 
) vation, its crest covered with a few trees and 
thick undergrowth where the decayed shells had 
formed a thin crust of soil, along with the de¬ 
posits of silt and drift left by the annual stage 
! of high water, forming a seed bed for the plant 
roots—it took the united efforts of all three men 
to drag the huge carcass partly ashore, where 
Cauge secured it. Then he scrambled up the 
mound and kindled a fire, took ashore the lunch 
| bucket, heated water and boiled coffee. Then, 
while Marse Hennery and the judge discussed 
the fried chicken and pone bred, he busied him- 
*Early part of the month of May. 
tConjuror or Voodoo priest. 
self in skinning the alligator, taking more pains 
than in the morning, removing the heavy skin 
of the back, as well as the merchantable hide 
from the belly, as it was to form a trophy, not 
for the hide dealer or tannery. This accom¬ 
plished, they re-embarked and soon got another 
shot, more successful, but just as Cauge was 
securing it the lizard had a sudden flurry that 
tore the hook pole from Marse Hennery’s hands 
and sent the old darky backward over the side 
of the flat, but not altogether overboard. 
“Foah Gawd, Marse Hennery, dat ole ’gator 
laik teh got me. He only dun stun. Des es 
I slip de noose ober he haid I dun see dat hees 
skull ent bruk, only de skeen dun slip offen eet 
by de shot, den es I teched heem he mek er 
snap et me. Lordy! but he dun hab er power¬ 
ful fin set er teef. Yah. Hut me, no sah; but 
he dun scaih me wus, de watah ent er huttin’ me. 
No sah; I’se alright now. Reckum we-alls des 
circle roun’ erwhile, mebbe he show up ergin. 
Yes, seh, jedge; dey offen duz. I dun gotter 
one oust dat I shot de whole top jaw oifien firs’ 
en los’ heem caze he sunk. En ’bout er hour 
atterward I dun shine hees eye ergin, en I got 
heem. Boddered me mighty et fust teh t'ink 
how cum I kin smash hees haid en he snout wid 
same charge. 
“What dat! Dar’s er lone eye shine in dar. 
Clar teh gracious, ef I don’t b’lieve dat’s heem. 
Keerful. jedge. Alright, Marse Hennery, yer 
try yer han’. Dar, hits sure am heem ; yeh dun 
blin’ one er hees eye suah, jedge. Eh, huh!” 
At the crack of the gun the alligator gave one 
heave and thrash of the water, then floated supine 
and came easily to bag as the judge spiked him. 
“Yah, mistah ’gator, cum yer sah. Doan’t 
yeh do no trick business now, feh I’se er tyin’ 
yer. No, seh; yer ain’t er-’possumin’ dis taime. 
Dat haid ob yeh teh brak up. Yer my meat. 
Dar, we’se got yeh fas’; cum erlong.” 
The night was waning fast, and as the judge 
and Marse Henry seemed satisfied with the 
result of their efforts, a short cut was taken for 
the bayou landing just as the rays of the late 
rising crescent moon began outlining a ghostly 
pathway along the water. The usual night 
noises had long since died away. They had 
nearly reached the last turn of the bayou above 
the cabin when old Cauge gave the flat a sudden 
shake as the “Twit-twit, put-put” of a turkey 
sounded. Then again it came, “Put-put, twit- 
twit, gobble, gobble, gobble.” 
“Das ole gobbler en hees hens dun er roostin’ 
down een de bottom neah de san’ ridge fiei’ 
des as dey has all summah. Dey hes rais’ er 
couple er good coveys, too. I seed ’em out by 
de lone pine cornfiel’ laarst week. Dey is putty 
beeg now. Yeh orter hab de jedge cum up een 
de fall, Marse Hennery, en hab er turkey hunt, 
sah. Reckum we-alls cud get er couple er foah 
’bout Chris’mus week ef yeh keep dem no-count 
niggahs dun scaihed off laik yeh hes dis las 
spring. I dun tole um eef I ketch airy one 
down eroun’ dat bottom er de pin’ oak thicket 
wid er gun dat dis niggah gwine shoot ’em on 
sight. En yer knows how I dun peppered Car¬ 
line’s Jim en Speckle Sammy wid mustard shot 
w’en I cotched ’em er settin’ dat pen trap las’ 
wintah. Kee-hee! how dose niggahs did yell 
en hop. Yah, yah! En dey cum mighty nigh 
er breakin’ dey fool naiks w’en dey see me er 
cumin’ er rammin’ ennuther load inteh de ole 
musket.—dey des naterally did, sah. 
“Well, heah we is, sah”—as the boat bumped 
up on the bank at the big house—“mornin’, sah; 
mornin’. Yessah, I’se des bunk down een de 
flat, en w’en hit cum sunup I’se skeen dis ’gator 
en brung de hides up teh de house. Yessah, 
Marse Hennery; I’ll mind de udder traps. Des 
tek yo guns erlon’; dat’s all. Morning’, sah, 
mornin’.” 
The Blue Thugs of the Sea 
By FRANK 
P ROBABLY there never was a less premedi¬ 
tated fishing trip. We met by accident 
on the porch pf the rambling old hotel at 
New London, and the conversation drifted into 
a discussion of the gamiest fish. The parson was 
sure that the salmon in Quebec streams gave one 
the best fight. Remembering battles royal with 
a certain variety of trout in the eddies and pools 
of the Skykomish in far-away Washington, I ad¬ 
vanced their claims. The lawyer was silent for 
as much as five minutes while we told our best 
stories. 
“Ever troll for bluefish?” he demanded sud¬ 
denly. 
Having only a dinner table acquaintance with 
this member of the tribe of fins, we shook out 
heads. 
“Then you don’t know what a fighting fish is,” 
he declared with a positiveness that was irritat¬ 
ing. 
“You’ll have to show me,” I scoffed. “Those 
Skykomish trout—” 
“Show you?” he cried. “Nothing easier. Come 
H. SWEET 
with me to-morrow and I’ll show you fishing 
that is fishing. The blues are running strong 
off Montauk on the other side of the sound, and 
I know just the skipper to put us among them. 
So it was that the gray of the 4 o clock dawn 
found us shivering on the breakwater. A hun¬ 
dred yards away the New London fleet of 
smacks tugged at their mud hooks, and a youth 
in a dory was approaching with jerky strokes to 
put us aboard one of them. The expedition was 
almost broken up at the beginning, when the 
lawyer pointed out our sloop, and the parson 
read in irregular letters on her stern the name 
Roulette. It seemed to him to be countenancing 
wickedness to go out in a craft with a gamb¬ 
ling name. The day was saved, however, when 
the smack’s skipper, Charley the L ank, began to 
tug on the anchor rope, singing the while and 
most devoutly an orthodox Methodist hymn. 
A spanking breeze was blowing from the Con¬ 
necticut valleys, and the trim little twenty-footer 
was soon slapping through the waves. We 
headed around Fisher’s Island, and then bore 
