In the excitement, Bob and Jerry appeared. All sail was made, and the chase of the silver king was on.
“Haul in on him—haul in,” shouted Bob.
“Go suck your thumb,” said Tom.
“Shoot him,” yelled Bob. “He’ll jump off the hook. Lemme help.”
“Go on, finish your snooze,” laughed Tom. “Keep away. This is my fish.”
“They’re bitin’, Mac,” continued Bob, growing more and more excited. “Where’s your pole? Lemme have it? I can get one, I’ll bet.”
Mac, laughing, explained that the etiquette of tarpon fishing demanded that when a fish is hooked, boats and other fishermen near by shall up anchor and keep out of the way. Bob, charged with excitement, forgot all about “sucking his thumb” or snoozing. As Captain Joe and Mac manoeuvred the boat in pursuit of the darting, struggling fish, and Jerry stood near the perspiring Tom with a gaff handy, Bob hung over the rail or ran back and forth, eager to assist and finding nothing to do. It was Tom’s first “silver scale,” but all his angling skill on Perdido waters led up to this supreme combat. Despite his thumb stall, the sizzling wet line soon wore through the skin of his thumb, but he gave no heed. At one point, after a moment’s quiet, the desperate fish made a sudden dash and leap. Tom’s reel went off like an explosion. The handle caught the boy’s thumb with a glancing blow, and, like a knife, snipped the skin off his knuckle.
Instantly, the blood welled out over his hand, mixed with the salt water running down his bared arm and then reddened his shirt.