So the last day had come and the fishing was to be a memory of the past. Our pleasant party was broken up—Millais and his young undergraduate friends, Powell and Stern, had gone north to Wrangel to start on their hunting trip in Alaska; Griswold back to New York, planning the construction of a special boat and the adding of the great tuna to his many trophies of big sea fish. Daggett alone remained, seated daily in the comfortable armchair he had rigged up in his boat, still intent on that 70 lb. fish we had all hoped for, but failed to secure.
The pleasant days of friendly intercourse had come to an end. No more the quiet row home in the gloaming after a successful or moderately successful day. No more the nightly gathering on the beach and the weighing of the great fish. The weather itself looked despondent, and was making up its mind to break. The certainty of the past was over, the uncertainty of the future before me, and it was with a sad heart I bade farewell to the Willows Hotel, and to the fishing days that were now no more.
The depressing hour of 1 a.m. found me sitting on the end of the pier waiting for the arrival of the Queen City, which was only an hour late, and once more I was bound for the unknown.