“Yes, I am tired,” replied R. C.
“It’s early yet,” I put in. “We’ll cinch the record for good. Grab the rod. I’ll enjoy the work for you.”
R. C. resigned himself, not without some remarks anent the insatiable nature of his host and boatman.
We were now off the east end of Clemente Island, that bleak and ragged corner where the sea, whether calm or stormy, contended eternally with the black rocks, and where the green and white movement of waves was never still. When almost two hundred yards off the yellow kelp-beds I saw a shadow darker than the blue water. It seemed to follow the boat, rather deep down and far back. But it moved. I was on my feet, thrilling.
“That’s a swordfish!” I called.
“No,” replied R. C.
“Some wavin’ kelp, mebbe,” added Dan, doubtfully.
“Slow up a little,” I returned. “I see purple.”
Captain Dan complied and we all watched. We all saw an enormous colorful body loom up, take the shape of a fish, come back of R. C.’s bait, hit it and take it.
“By George!” breathed R. C., tensely. His line slowly slipped out a little, then stopped.