The Capture of the Big Shark. 
On a bitter cold clay in January last I was 
snugly ensconced in a ducking blind away down 
on the eastern shore of Virginia, mighty nigh, 
as my guide remarked, “de las’ steppin’ off place” 
on bleak Cape Charles. The wind was whistling 
out of the northwest with a sting and an occas¬ 
ional flurry of snow that made one long for the 
comfort of the old box stove in the ducking 
shanty a few miles away; but I was after the 
seductive but wary broadbill that frequent those 
lonely shores in the winter time and—cold or no 
cold—intented to have some. 
Nibbling tenderly at my frozen luncheon, while 
keeping a sharp but watery eye out for a possi¬ 
ble shot, I was rather surprised to hear Joe, my 
guide, in his soft Southern voice drawl out on 
the frosty air: “Yas, sah! I done tole yo’ whar 
man friend, Thomas O’Kane, Jr., to join our 
forces, and it was lucky we did so, since it was 
upon his own private hook that the great shark, 
of which I am going to write, was eventually 
taken. 
The evening of the second day of August 
found our trio boarding the midnight train for 
Cheriton, Va. About five the next morning we 
were told that “Dis yere next stop, Cheriton, 
sah! Dere’s whar you-all gets off,” and off we 
got, thankful to climb into the waiting bus that 
was to convey us to the home of our guides at 
Oyster, Va. A jolly reunion and a jollier meal 
followed our arrival, after which a rush was 
made for Captain Will’s fine power boat, and 
when guns and provisions had been stowed away 
we churned for our home destination, the duck¬ 
ing shanty, down the bay. 
On arrival city clothes were exchanged for 
ing hooks attached to chains and heavy sea lines 
strewn on the seats and flooring, ready, as it 
seemed to me, to jump and jab themselves into 
any and everything. I stepped gingerly around 
the nearest hook and settled myself down to 
enjoy every detail. The cheery voice of Joe, as 
he hoisted the sail, and the rattle and swish of 
canvas and gear were like music to my ears as 
the smart old boat got under way and heeled to 
the breeze. A spin of perhaps a mile, and up 
in the wind she came. Splash went the mud 
hook, and we were just abeam of “dat ar old 
red buoy ’way ova yander.” 
The big hooks were baited with splendid weak- 
fish, two or more to each hook, dropped over in 
forty feet of swift-running tide water, and the 
big sharks were invited to come along and have 
some and welcome. For quite a while I really 
expected a tremendous yank at any moment, but 
The Jack Curlew Blind. 
ON THE CAPE CHARLES GROUNDS. 
The Shark and Its Captors. 
yo’ kin hab good gunnin’ down yere widout 
freezin’ to death as dis yere is. Pack up dat 
ar ole gun ob yo’s an’ mosey long down dis yere 
way 'long ’bout, say, de fust week cum naixt 
August, an’ tuk a whack at dem big jack curlew 
birds an’ de yaller laigs and black bres’ plover 
an’ willets; right smart lot dem big birds yere. 
An’ den, good lan’, dat shark fishin’! Whoof! 
Dat’s de time; dat’s de sho’ ’nuff time for all 
de wild ’citement you folks want. See that ar 
ole red buoy way ova yander? Yas, sah; dat’s 
de one right on de aidge o’ de channel. Dat’s 
de place whar de ole he-debbils run on de flood 
tide. Lan’ sakes! ’Long dis yere boat, I reckon; 
some a sight longer maybe, an’ dey’s shore ’nuff 
pizen-wicked; ’deed dey is — Lordy! I done 
tackle many a one in ma day. I knows what 
dey is.” 
Well, thought I, blowing on my almost frozen 
fingers, that certainly sounds good to me. Later, 
finding that Joe had not exaggerated the pros¬ 
pects for really excellent sport, on my return 
home I sought out my old gunning chum, Dr. 
Charles C. Halgren. of New York, who eagerly 
agreed to take a chance, and we laid our plans 
accordingly. We also invited a devoted sports- 
r 
shooting rigs, and all hands were soon off for 
the curlew blinds. The day, however, was much 
too warm and the hour too advanced for good 
shooting, but I managed to kill enough jacks to 
convince me that so far at least Joe had told 
me no fairy tale that cold winter’s day. 
Poling back to the house at noon—for dinner 
and to rest awhile—I found the others enthu¬ 
siastic over the prospects, and it was with a 
great sigh of contentment that I sat down in 
my old rocking chair. Ah, me, how good it 
seemed to be again under that hospitable roof 
after all that strenuous activity; to stretch one’s 
aching limbs in solid comfort, and to recall the 
memories of the famous days spent on the bay— 
days when the brant and geese and broadbills 
gave us sport that kings might envy and never 
enjoy, and I was rapidly falling into a delicious 
retrospection, oblivious of my immediate sur¬ 
roundings, when someone shouted. "Hey, there! 
Wake up! No snoozin’! All aboard for the 
batteau and the sharks.” 
With a start I collected my wandering wits 
and joined the boys as they poled their way down 
channel to the waiting batteau. Climbing over 
the rail I viewed with wonder many fierce look¬ 
nothing happened, and at length I sought the 
comfort offered by a pile of oilskins and canvas 
jackets next to the centerboard, and lazily 
stretching myself out I watched with sleepy 
eyes my old chums as, with pipes aglow, they 
fished and whispered of sharks and their savage 
ways. 
I was suddenly and most violently awakened 
to the startling fact that my line was whizzing 
like a mad thing over the rail, fairly humming 
a song as it flew, and they tell me that for a 
man of my age I exhibited remarkable agility 
for two or three seconds’ time, trying to catch 
that elusive line. Judging from the way my 
poor back ached the next morning they may have 
been right. 
I finally seized the line and had a great time 
hauling and jerking and bracing, until at last 
I brought to the surface—plunging and fighting 
mad—a baby blue-fin shark, about four feet long, 
but 400 in ferocity, and then had to pose while 
the cameras clicked in happy unison. After such 
a good beginning it looked as though something 
in the way of a big one was due. 
I was making my way back to the oilskin 
couch when crash, smash, bang, sounded in my 
