difficult to imagine the object of the kingfish in throwing its prey into the air. These skipjacks often skip into boats, and exceedingly beautiful little fish they are, with the steely blue sheen on their burnished silver coats, and their amber fins and sharply-forked tail. The damaged tail-fin of the swimming kingfish figured opposite struck me the moment I caught it, and I came to the conclusion at the time that the tail-fin had been bitten by a prowling shark that the kingfish was, thanks to its lightning speed, able to baulk of a more substantial meal. Of the sharks that infest this coast I shall have something to say later on. They are numerous and ravenous, and spare nothing, great or small.
And now the tarpon are biting again. There are two, three, four strikes; three fish have jumped, two are fairly hooked. The excitement grows.
“Hi, you, sir! reel up there. Can’t you see you have fouled that lady’s line? Cut your line—tell you you have no fish on at all—just cut your line!”
“Pull like hell!” shouts some one to his guide, as his tarpon rushes in towards him.
“Pick up that chair, Bill,” cries the guide, a minute later. “My gent’s fallen out—got to tow him ashore. There goes a rod broken at the butt.”
“Lend us an oar, Sam; mine’s smashed.”
“Come and get it yourself,” sings out the courteous Sam.