Bob sprang forward with his handkerchief.
“Keep away from me,” shouted Tom. “This is my fish, and I’m goin’ to land him.”
“Yo’ all’s bleedin’ to def,” panted Jerry. Mac and Captain Joe smiled. They knew that only death itself could come between a real tarpon fisher and his prize.
“Keep those kids off me, Mac,” savagely exclaimed Tom. “Put ’em in the hold.”
At a quarter to one o’clock, the battle was over. The sails were dropped again, and Captain Joe, not Jerry, sank the gaff into the conquered fish. As Tom’s rod and reel dropped on the deck and the exhausted boy fell backwards, four willing pairs of arms pulled his victim into the boat. It was six feet, seven inches long, and weighed one hundred and fifty-three pounds.
A shot in the spinal column, and the monster fish was dead. With its last flop, the panting Tom crawled to its side and pulled off one of its largest and most brilliant scales.
“Help yourselves, boys,” he said, his face aglow with the pride of conquest. “Get a few souvenirs, and then throw him overboard.”
“Not much,” protested Mac. “That fish is goin’ in to Tarpon Springs to be weighed and registered. He’s a record fish.”
“Throw him overboard?” almost shrieked Bob. “What do you mean? Aren’t we goin’ to keep him?”
“Why keep him?” laughed Tom. “He ain’t fit to eat. Take a couple of scales. That’s all you can do with a tarpon, except to lick him.”