| 
Tarpon on a Nine-Thread 
Line 
(Continued from page 87) 
society. The buttons and belt holding 
my pants had bursted off during my 
gyrations back and forth from stem 
to stern of the boat which was neces- 
sary in order to keep my small line 
free from the bottom of the launch. 
After buttons and belt had given way, 
naturally my pants slipped down on 
my ankles, and were promptly kicked 
off to allow more freedom which was 
vitally essential right at that stage of 
the game. My shirt-tail was flapping, 
and snapping in the brisk breeze, and 
while I was by this time fighting light, 
if Mr. Tarpon had lasted ten minutes 
longer he could have gone his way re- 
joicing so far as I was concerned. 
I was thoroughly fagged out. When 
‘I finally reeled my fish up along side 
the pulling of that trigger. 
the boat, George reached over, grasped 
the tarpon in the gills with his fingers, 
and hauled the fighter in the boat where 
the silver beauty lay without making 
the least quiver—the tarpon was stone 
dead, and I wasn’t very much alive 
myself, but I could not help pitying the 
fish as he lay there conquered and 
dead after the most determined and 
spectacular battle it has ever been my 
experience to witness. 
HEN we reached Pass a Grille the 
fish was officially weighed and 
measured. The weight was 113 pounds 
and the fish was 72 inches long, and 
while I have since tried time and again 
to get another silver king on a nine- 
thread line, my efforts so far have been 
in vain. 
“Tce—and Bluebills” 
(Continued from page 105) 
of my waders. I was holding my duck 
out of the water with one hand and my 
gun up in the air with the other when a 
single bluebill came over the pass and 
got by the shooting of my two friends. 
HEY called out to me to get him. 
There I was with my feet stuck in 
six inches of mud, the water up near the 
top of my waders, and it was ice water 
remember. I dropped the duck that I 
was carrying, twisted half way around 
until I was almost unbalanced, and 
pulled on that duck. He came down 
like a stone and made a hole through 
the thin ice where he struck. SoI had 
to break ice for another fifty yards to 
retrieve him. It was not that this shot 
was difficult in itself that makes it stand 
out in my memory, but it was the real- 
ization of the “possibilities” attending 
The boys 
on the shore yelled “good shot,” but 
just at the moment the only thing good 
In writing to Advertisers mention Forest and Stream. 
about it was the realization that I was 
still right side up in a pair of dry 
waders. 
Just as I reached shore a high one 
was coming straight over Hank and he 
snapped it dead in the air, dropping it 
just a few feet from him. He discov- 
ered that it was a redhead. And in 
the meantime Bill had pulled down a 
greenwing teal. So we were really go- 
ing to have some variety. 
HE sun had nearly set when I got 
my next chance at the last duck 
that I killed that day—and the best one. 
A big fellow appeared straight over | 
out of the now almost dark north, and 
I cracked him the first shot. He was 
hard hit and started on a slant straight 
toward Hank. I called to Hank, “get 
that one quick before he gets away.” 
Hank had not seen this duck and he 
whirled madly around yelling “where?” 
That duck just missed Hank’s head by 
about two feet and was dead when he 
picked it up, no doubt more from the 
impact with the ground than from the 
shot. And it was a greenhead mallard 
in full plumage, the only mallard seen 
that day. More variety. 
It was sundown now and shooting 
was legally over. _We emptied our guns 
and started to get things together for 
the trip home. We had twenty-six blue- 
bills, one redhead, one canvasback, one 
greenwing teal and one greenhead mal- 
lard. It was the easiest shooting that 
I had enjoyed that season, and was also 
the last, as it froze hard the next night. 
All of those ducks were shot right off 
that pass, without moving out of the 
blinds. 
Ae now, as I dream over again the 
sight of those fast bluebills com- 
ing over that pass, I attach as a supple- 
ment to that memory, an imagination 
of what might have happened if there 
had been a boat with which to get out 
to that open water in the south lake. 
I could have shot the limit of all three 
of us in fifteen minutes. But it would 
have been only a little MORE. We 
had had a fine outing, a good bag, and 
did not need any more. 
And we are compelled to admit that 
because J did not have a boat that fall, 
there are a lot more ducks for some- 
one next fall. Is it not true? That is 
something worth remembering. Enough 
is ENOUGH. 

It will identify you. 








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