Dec. 25, 1909.] 
FOREST AND STREAM 
1021 
head idly balancing themselves in the waves so 
as not to be thrown against the stones, and 
caught all we could use, some of them weighing 
as much as twelve pounds. At the shoreward 
end of the jetty the tides had formed a deep 
pool, which was the best fishing ground for jew- 
fish, and here I spent the greater part of the 
next few days' in a vain effort to catch one of 
these monsters. 
On the afternoon of the 8th of March Arm¬ 
strong and I were idly sitting on the end of the 
jetty, taking pot shots at the porpoises as they 
played up and down the pass, when we both saw 
a big fish jump into the air not a hundred yards 
away. 
“By gosh,” said Armstrong, “that was a tar¬ 
pon. Let us go back to the boat and get our 
tackle all ready for the morning. We will have 
one of those fellows to-morrow. Don’t say a 
word to Delmonico, because he is hired by one 
of those men at the club to pull him for the 
next month, and would leave us in a minute if 
he knew tarpon were around.” 
We returned on board, ate our dinner as usual, 
and then Armstrong and Delmonico strolled over 
to the club. I went to bed and was awakened 
some time later by Armstrong, who said: “It’s 
no use; they are on to us. One of the life¬ 
saving men saw the fish and told Delmonico. 
He has quit. Don’t you mind, though, for if 
I am not a regular tarpon puller I can row a 
boat and we will have an even chance with them 
in the morning.” 
As soon as the first sign of daylight appeared 
in the morning, Armstrong went out with his 
casting net to catch mullet, while I got our 
breakfast ready. He soon returned with a dozen 
fish which we put in the sharpie, sat down with 
me to a hurried breakfast and then bundled me 
into the boat with my tackle. I took the oars 
and let Armstrong sit in the cut-off chair fac¬ 
ing the stern of the boat, for I wanted to save 
his energies to pull me when we reached the 
fishing grounds. As we rounded the point we 
saw the three brothers ahead of us, each in a 
boat pulled by a man, and we knew then that 
it was going to be a fair fight. Armstrong had 
my rod in his hand and was idly trolling the 
baited hook behind us, when suddenly there was 
a tug at the line and a swirl in the water that 
nearly sent the astonished man overboard. 
“Here, quick,” he whispered; “change places 
with me. That was a strike.” 
I took his place, put on a fresh mullet, and 
we rowed along some seventy yards behind the 
nearest boat. Just as we got to the end of the 
breakwater the man ahead of us had a strike 
and I saw a gleaming monster leap into the air. 
Delmonico was pulling this man and he let out 
a wild yell of triumph, thinking that the blue 
ribbon was surely theirs. But he yelled too 
soon; the fish threw the hook from his mouth 
in that first leap and was gone. 
The secret was out; tarpon were around, and 
every man put all his energy and attention upon 
his line, hoping, praying that he might be the 
lucky one to hook one so that he would stay 
put. For half an hour we rowed up and down 
the length of the jetty, each man fearing to 
hear the cry of some competitor. I had some 
thirty-five feet of line out and was trolling my 
hook slowly behind us when I felt a tug at my 
line very like the strike of a big bluefish. I 
gave an answering jerk and felt the hook strike 
well in, and then a gleaming silver monster 
darted up into the air in front of me to a height 
of ten feet, shaking his widely opened mouth 
and distended gills in an effort to dislodge the 
hook. He struck the water in a cloud of spray 
and started out to sea at a terrific pace. 
-r~ ■ 1 , 
THE BLACK SEA BASS IN THE NET. 
THE CAPTIVE AT THE DOCK. 
I was conscious of an ear-splitting yell of joy 
from Armstrong, and then the rapidity with 
which the fish was taking my line away gave 
me a sickening sensation of fear. Half of the 
200 yards was gone and still the rush continued. 
Armstrong was pulling as hard as he could to¬ 
ward the fish, but still the line was rapidly going 
out. There were but fifty yards left when I de¬ 
cided that I must take an awful chance to stop 
him. I slipped the lever which set the heavy 
drag on the reel and tightened the pressure of 
my fingers upon the line, trusting in Providence 
and the skill of the man who made the tackle 
that it would stand the strain. 
The tackle held, and the fish could not stand 
the strain, turning gradually in a circle and 
finally stopping still. It was time, for I had 
scarcely twenty yards of line left. Then away 
out to sea, as it seemed to me, I saw a big fish 
leap into the air three times and Armstrong 
cried: “See him jump! That is our fish.” 
I could scarcely believe it possible, but just 
then my line all slacked up and I was afraid I 
had lost him after all. 
“Get in all the line you can,” cried Arm¬ 
strong; “he is coming in toward us.” 
I reeled in as fast as I could and got back 
about seventy yards of line when I felt him 
again. Up into the air he went again and then 
made another rush. I turned him this time be¬ 
fore he got very far, and then he began to sulk. 
Overhauling my line with my left hand and 
winding up the slack with my right, I drew him 
slowly nearer, while Armstrong was rowing to¬ 
ward the point of the beach where we wanted to 
land our fish. 
I got him within twenty feet of the boat when 
he saw us, leaped out of the water almost over 
our heads and was off in another rush. I 
checked him and soon had him close astern, 
pretty well played out, as I thought. As the 
nose of the sharpie touched the sand I got out 
on the beach, keeping a careful watch on my 
fish and a steady strain on him with the rod, 
and then I slowly reeled him in. The moment 
he struck the shoal water he gave another leap 
and tried to run, but he was too tired to get 
far and I soon had him coming ashore belly 
up. Armstrong took hold of the wire snell and 
pulled him up on the beach clear of the water, 
and the blue ribbon of Texas for that year was 
mine. 
I tried to lay down my rod in order to pluck 
the conventional silver scale from my prize, but 
my fingers were so cramped that I had to have 
Armstrong’s help to pry them one by one from 
the rod. My fish was a beautiful male without 
scar or blemish, and I determined to have him 
mounted. Cotter, the proprietor of the club, ar¬ 
rived at this moment in a small launch and 
towed us back to the cove, delighted that the 
longed-for first tarpon of the year was safely 
counted. 
Every man, woman and child in the neighbor¬ 
hood came down to the dock to see the first fish 
and the man who had won the blue ribbon. He 
was not a big fish as tarpon go, lacking some¬ 
thing of being six feet long, but I thought he 
was the greatest fish in the world. Armstrong 
wanted to go out again for the second prize, 
the red ribbon, but I was content to leave that 
honor to one of the three brothers. They were 
unsuccessful, however, and the next morning 
we all four set out again. 
I was the first one to get a strike that day, 
but failed to hook my fish securely and lost him. 
The man whom Delmonico was pulling was for¬ 
tunate enough to catch the second fish, winning 
the red ribbon, and soon after I caught the 
third, winning the white ribbon. I hauled this 
fish up on the beach, took one scale from his 
silver sides to tack up in the club house and 
then put him back in his native element head 
first. He was off like the bullet from a rifle, 
and I only hope that some reader of Forest and 
