170 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[Aug. i, 1908. 
away through the Race direct for the fishing 
banks over against the Long Island shore. 
The Roulette boasted a crew of two, the afore¬ 
said skipper and “Guy Ropes,” about the tough¬ 
est looking youth it had ever been my sorrow 
to gaze upon. Asked if he was the mate, he 
made an instant denial. 
“Who ever heard of mates on a bluefisher? 
It’s 'first hand’ always, and that’s me title—see!” 
It was off Little Gull Island that he smashed 
his finger with a hammer and gave us evidence 
of his ability in another line than that of hand¬ 
ling the sheet and tiller. The parson, ignoring 
the picturesqueness of his profanity, remon¬ 
strated with him sternly. 
“ ’Tain’t no use, preacherman,” said old 
Charley, rubbing his fist into his beard, which 
bristled like the back of a porcupine. “’Tain't 
no use trying to cleanse the words of the first 
hand. I’ve tried it myself and ’tain’t no use.” 
“What was your method, skipper?” the parson 
asked. 
“You see,” he began, “I got religion awhile 
back. I’d been a bad man in my day, especially 
when I was sailin’ a bluefishin’ schooner to the 
Five Fathom Banks, an’ other places akin to the 
evil one’s holdout. But I sure got religion 
strong. I couldn’t change the name of this here 
smack, ’cause that’s bad luck when the craft 
ain’t done nothin’ to deserve it. I thought I’d 
change Guy Ropes, an’ sure no one needs re¬ 
formin’ more. I warned him that the Roulette 
had got religion, an’ in the future was goin’ 
to be sailed accordin’ to the ten commandments 
and Methodist rules for right living. 
“Guy Ropes just worked his ugly face into 
a grin an declared his independence by excessive 
profanity. We were cornin’ through the Race 
at the time, with the pit full of mackerel, an’ 
a good wind blowin’ us home. I just hitched 
a rope under Guy Ropes’ arms and naturally 
tumbled him. overboard, after tellin’ him he 
could come aboard when he got religion. He 
towed like a bundle of cork, but after a knot 
or two began to fill up with brine. I kept a 
prayin’ that he might see the light ’fore he 
drowned, but in the end I had to pull him in. 
An what do you think was the first thing he 
did after I got the water rolled out of him? 
He cussed me, port an’ starboard, from bow 
to stern, an’ up an’ down the mast. No; ’tain’t 
no use tryin’ to reform Guy Ropes.” 
The erstwhile subject for reform had for¬ 
gotten the pain of his mashed finger, and was 
grinning like a heathen at the recital of the 
skipper. 
“You get busy now, first hand,” ordered the 
skipper, “an’ get out the tackle. ’Nother hour 
’ll bring us into ’em, or I miss my bearin’s.” 
We were skimming through the choppy waters 
of the Race by this time, enjoying the sail hugely 
—all but the parson, who, much to the joy of 
Guy Ropes, was feeling uncomfortable over the 
sloop's motion. Though her centerboard was 
clear down, the Roulette was heeling over from 
the force of the wind, and to help keep her keel 
in the water we perched on the port rail and 
hung on as best we might. Guy Ropes had 
brought out half a dozen long lines to which he 
attached large, stout steel hooks with a length 
of wire between line and hook as a precaution 
against the knife-like teeth of the bluefish. He 
hung extra hooks and wires about the stern 
seat, and rigged a short steel rod that one of 
us might fish at the side, lessening the likeli¬ 
hood of getting lines tangled. 
Suddenly the skipper’s lanky form uncoiled, 
and, giving the tiller to the lawyer, who is some¬ 
thing of a sailor when it does not blow too 
strong, scrambled out on the covered deck; for¬ 
ward and gazed intently at a bunty tug which 
lay several miles north of the course we were 
steering. “It’s a banker tug from the Promised 
Land Fish Factory,” he said on returning. 
“They’re throwing their nets around a school 
of menhaden. We’ll bear down and borrow 
some bait.” 
Half an hour later we came alongside the 
fishing tug, just as the great purse net, with its 
load of twenty-five or thirty thousand shiners, 
was made fast. With a huge scoop operated 
by steam the menhaden fishermen began to get 
their catch into the tug’s hold. With every 
plunge of the scoop there was great commotion 
within the larger net, followed by a shower of 
fish which fell back as the overfull scoop was 
raised. 
“Give us some bait?” begged our skipper of 
the tug’s captain. 
“Give you nothing,” was the answer roared 
back. 
They both were Yankees, and the bargaining 
which followed was typical. We finally got two 
bucketfuls of menhaden in return for half a 
dozen live lobsters which Guy Ropes fished out 
of the sloop’s well. “Now we’ll make a haul, 
sure,” said the skipper as we fell away from 
the tug and got back on our course. “There’s 
nothing a bluefish likes so well as a bit out of 
the back of a menhaden.” Then he showed us 
how to cut two baits each an inch long out of 
the back of the small fish. 
We sailed on for an hour, logging off six or 
seven knots easily. The parson and I were be¬ 
ginning to wonder how long a voyage was neces¬ 
sary to reach the trolling grounds, when the 
lawyer began to sit up and take notice. He 
picked up a menhaden and snipped out a bait. 
He recoiled the line he had pre-empted. 
“See those gulls,” he said finally, pointing to 
a great flock of sea birds which were flying 
about excitedly not far ahead of us. “We’ll 
get our first fishing there. The blues have run 
down a school of menhaden, and the gulls are 
feasting on the scraps.” 
Soon we were in the field of massacre, and 
it was a sight once seen never forgotten. There 
were thousands of the small menhaden flicking 
the water into foam in their efforts to get away 
from their tireless, remorseless, insatiable 
enemies. The bluefish seemed to revel in the 
slaughter. They were not feeding, but wan¬ 
tonly mangling the menhaden school. Occasion¬ 
ally a bluish back would show on the surface, 
jaws working like steam-driven shears, cutting, 
nipping, slashing the pretty harmless shiners into 
halves and quarters, which littered the surface 
all about. 
The lawyer, the skipper and the first hand had 
their lines baited and over the stern at the first 
sign of a “whip.” For the parson and myself 
it was a first experience, and we looked on in 
disgust at the merciless slaughter. Perhaps the 
gulls could have given a reason for it, but it 
made us feel like seeking vengeance for the 
weaker menhaden. We put out our lines with 
the rest. 
The old skipper got the first strike, as we were 
advised when he howled for Guy Ropes to take 
the tiller, and forgetting his new Methodist al¬ 
legiance, “cussed” him roundly because he was 
so slow. We green hands watched him care¬ 
fully that we might know what to do when our 
turn came. Bracing himself firmly he began to 
pull steadily on the line, giving not an inch in 
spite of the tugs which came at. frequent in¬ 
tervals. The line cut into his hands, toughened 
as they were with years of fishing, for the fish 
was a big one and pulled like a locomotive. The 
skipper set his teeth grimly and hauled in foot 
by foot. At last he had gained all but twenty 
yards and the tide runner—as the larger blue¬ 
fish are known—began to whip frequently. The 
pressure on the line was growing less and a 
smile spread itself over the skipper’s bronze 
face. In a minute more he would have landed 
his prize. 
Guy Ropes, who had been managing the tiller 
with one hand and his line with the other, got 
a strike, and a mighty one. Naturally he for¬ 
got the tiller and grabbed with both hands at 
the line, which was running out like a streak. 
The sloop, left to her own devices, gave a 
sudden lurch, which tumbled us all in a heap 
in a corner of the cockpit. When the skipper 
got hold of his line again it was trailing over 
the stern and offered now the least resistance 
to his tugs. Guy Ropes’ strike was still hooked, 
and he was pulling away on it as though noth¬ 
ing had happened. The skipper gave him one 
look and followed it with a cuff on the ear. 
Then he seized upon the unfortunate’s line, and 
for the rest of the day the first hand held the 
tiller. 
The parson’s first strike came a moment later, 
and when he pulled a fine eight-pounder over 
the rail after a twenty minute fight, the Canadian 
salmon had lost a champion. His hands were 
bleeding in several places, but he did not mind. 
“Such a fighter! Such a fighter!” he cried, 
looking down at the beauty. He bent over to 
lift the bluefish into the box by the cabin door 
Not having been warned of danger, he tackled 
it as he would a salmon. There was a snap, 
and the jaws of the bluefish, game to the last, 
closed like a steel trap on his forefinger. “You 
thug, you! You pirate!” he cried, when the 
skipper had pried him free and was binding up 
the ugly wound; “You don’t know when you’re 
whipped.” 
Four fine ones were threshing around the box 
by the time we had crossed the banks. We pul 
about then and beat back to the other boundary. 
The lawyer was hauling them in with the skill 
of long experience, but it was not my lucky 
day. I got strikes enough, to be sure, but if 
there were any tricks the speedy blues did not 
play on me they are not known to the Atlantic 
tribe. I was making great headway with the 
first one hooked when resistance suddenly 
ceased and the line hung slack. The skipper 
said that probably the bait had slipped up the 
line and had been snapped off by a second fish. 
With still a third I was careless enough to 
slacken the line, and the fish ran up above the 
wire and snapped himself free. 
The Roulette was not alone on the banks, for* 
several other sloops had sailed down upon us— 
two from Saybrook through Plum Gut, others 
from Gardiner’s Island, and the Montauk light¬ 
house keeper with a load of resorters. We 
threshed back and forth in company. Some- 
