ished putting a new hook on his line. 
Butch was busy repairing the dam- 
age the tarpon and shark had done his 
outfit, so for the time being this left me 
fishing alone after having put a fresh 
wiggly shiner on my hook. I allowed 
about 80 feet of line to play out, the 
water being approximately 15 fathoms 
deep where we were fishing. 
I was still fishing comfortably from 
the stern, all set and ready for the 
strike that my thumping insides seemed 
to tell me was coming. 
Five minutes went by, and nary a 
nibble. I shifted my position just a 
trifle and had started to cross my legs 
for further comfort when tug went my 
line, and my rod dipped into the water. 
ITH a quick jerk upward as stout 
as I dared with the small line in 
use, I was successful in getting a hook 
hold, then things began to happen. My 
reel began to sing and scream, the 
thumb guard in some way had become 
turned around the wrong way, and just 
as my fish left the water I realized that 
all the skin was being burnt off my 
thumb where it was pressed against the 
line acting as a brake. By using both 
hands, and lots of awkward manipula- 
tion, to say nothing of some difficulty, 
I was finally able to get the guard in 
place, and then the fight was on. 
FTER the first jump, which gave 
me an opportunity to see that it 
was a whale of a tarpon (or so it ap- 
peared to me), the fighter made a 
straight-away run for at least 300 feet 
before again leaping high into the air, 
‘shaking his gills in a frenzy to be rid 
of the thoroughly lodged hook. In the 
meantime the guide had started the mo- 
tor, and we followed the fish in order 
to give me an opportunity to get in 
some of my line, which I was able to do 
after Mr. Tarpon had run out at least 
500 feet of it. 
The gamy rascal tried several tarpon 
tricks, such as allowing himself to be 
reeled in for a hundred feet. or more, 
and then without any warning what- 
ever, away he’d go like a shot for sev- 
eral hundred feet more. After having 
fought my fish for some time, I had 
with a great deal of pumping, and per- 
suading, reeled him to within thirty 
feet of the launch, and was beginning 
to pat myself on the back thinking that 
I had him whipped, when away like a 
flash he went George yelling to me at 
the same time “let him go the sharks 
are after him.” Let go I did, and of all 
the screeching I ever heard a reel make, 
mine topped them all until about 400 
feet of line had run out and then be- 
came slack. 
I was plum flabbergasted, feeling 
sure that after all my hard work care- 
ful, and eager efforts, my fish was 
gone, and while it had been royal sport 
while it lasted all the heart was gone 
out of me. 
Reeling in my line until I had about 
300 feet of it in, I hesitated for a mo- 
ment to say something to one of my 
companions, when zizz went my reel 
again, the handle of which knocked 
several strips of skin off my thumb, and 
knuckles before I realized what was 
happening, but when I did come to and 
felt that there was still a chance to get 
my tarpon the pain was forgotten. 
OR two hours and fifteen minutes 
the contest lasted. Sometimes I 
would succeed in getting my tarpon 
within a short distance of the boat, and 
feel that the fight was at last over, 
only to see or rather feel him go again 
with apparently more pep than ever. 
During the last fifteen minutes of the 
fray, I was in no shape so far as wear- 
ing apparel was concerned, for polite 
(Continued on page 123) 

Photo by Underwood & Underwood 
good illustration of a leaping “Silver King” 
; a 
