Jim Spurling, Fisherman Part 29

"Now for a harpoon!"

Across the rafters inside the house lay a hard-pine pole eighteen feet long, ending in a tapering two-foot iron. Strung on a fish-line hanging from a spike were a half-dozen swordfish darts. These were sharp, stubby metal arrows, all head and tail and no body, with a socket cast on one side to admit the top of the pole-iron. Back of the arrow-head was a hole, through which was fastened the buoy-line.

"Righto!" exclaimed Jim. "Now when the fog clears we'll be ready to do business."

That very night the mists scaled away before a brisk north wind. Morning showed the sea clear for miles, though a fleecy haze still blurred the southern and eastern horizon.

"We'll take this chance," decided Jim. "May not get a better. Remember it's dog-days!"

At five o'clock they started south. Before eight they were on the swordfish-grounds. The wind, blowing against the long ocean swell, raised a fairly heavy sea. Though the day was clear, they could still feel the fog in the air.

Jim allotted the company their several stations.

"Budge, you swarm up to that seat on the gaff and watch out for fins!

Throppy, you steer as Budge tells you! Stand by to take the dory, Perce, and go after any fish I'm lucky enough to iron. Filippo, be ready to throw that buoy and coil of warp off the starboard bow the minute I make a strike. I'll get out in the pulpit with the harpoon. Keep alive, everybody! We're liable to run across something any minute."

Perched aloft, Budge scanned the tossing, glittering sea. His keen eye detected a triangular, black membrane steering leisurely through the waves a hundred yards ahead.

"Fin on the starboard bow! Keep her off, Throppy!"

In a short time the _Barracouta_ was close behind the unconscious fish.

From the bowsprit end burst a shout of disgust:

"No good! I can see him plain! Tail's too limber! Only a shark! Swing her off, Throppy!"

"How can I tell a shark from a swordfish?" Budge called down to Jim.

"Shark's back fin is shorter and broader, and he keeps his tail-fluke whacking from side to side. Swordfish has two steady fins, stiff as shingles; front one is long and slender and curves back on a crook; the after one is the upper tail-fluke. Try again!"

Five minutes pa.s.sed. Then an excited yell:

"Fin to port!"

Following Budge's shouted directions, the sloop gave chase. Soon they were near their quarry.

"Swordfish!" breathlessly announced Jim. "And a big one! Put me on top of him, Budge!"

Leaning against the mast-hoop that encircled his waist, he lifted the long lance and poised it for the blow. The tail of the fish was almost under his feet when he launched the harpoon with all his strength.

Unluckily, at just that moment the sloop dipped and met a big sea squarely. Her bowsprit dove under, burying Jim almost breast-deep, spoiling his aim. The dart struck the fish a glancing blow on the side of the shoulder. Off darted their frightened game.

Jim gave a cry of disappointment.

"Too bad! Ten feet, if he was an inch! Well, better luck next time!"

A quarter-hour pa.s.sed. Budge strained his eyes, but no fin! The breeze was shifting to the northeast. Jim cast a practised eye about the horizon.

"If the wind swings round much farther it'll bring the fog again. See anything, Budge?"

"No--yes! Up to starboard! Right, Throppy! Keep her as she is!"

The fish was swimming at a moderate rate, and the sloop had no trouble in catching up with him. The two stiff fins betrayed him.

[Ill.u.s.tration: LEANING AGAINST THE MAST-HOOP THAT ENCIRCLED HIS WAIST, HE LIFTED THE LONG LANCE AND POISED IT FOR THE BLOW]

"Swordfish all right!" muttered Jim. "Not quite so big as the other one, but too good to lose! Steady, Throppy!"

Foot by foot the _Barracouta's_ bowsprit forged up on their prospective prey. n.o.body spoke. Jim's grip on the pine staff tightened; his eye measured the distance to the dull-blue shoulder.

Six inches further ... five ... four ... three ... two ... one ...

_now!_

With all his might he drove the harpoon downward, straight for its mark.

There was a tremendous flurry, and down went the fish, leaving a trail of blood.

"Got him that time! Right through the shoulder! Over with that warp and barrel, Filippo!"

The Italian obeyed, his eyes wide as saucers. Soon the coils of the fifty-fathom lobster-warp had straightened out in the wake of the terrified fugitive, and the red buoy danced off over the wave-crests.

"He's up to you, Perce!" shouted Jim. "Go after him! Only be sure to remember what I told you coming out. Keep your eye on the barrel! Haul it aboard as soon as you can, and coil in the warp. Don't get snarled up in it if he starts running again."

Percy drew the dory alongside and jumped in. Meanwhile the harpoon staff was dragged aboard by the line attached to it, the pole-iron having pulled out of the socket in the dart when the fish was struck. Jim stuck on a fresh dart, attached to another warp and buoy, and was ready for a second strike.

"Pa.s.s Percy that lance, Filippo!" he ordered.

"He may need it to keep off the sharks."

The Italian handed to Whittington a short, stout pole, on its end a two-foot iron rod, flattened to a point shaped like a tablespoon, and filed to razor sharpness. Percy set out in pursuit of the red barrel, now almost two hundred yards to starboard.

"Another fin to port!" hailed Budge; and the _Barracouta_ sheered off in quest of a second prize.

For the first few minutes, though Percy rowed his prettiest, he could not hold his own with the moving barrel. Each glance over his shoulder showed that it was farther away. He bent stoutly to his oars. The sloop was heading in the opposite direction, and the distance between them widened rapidly. The wind had veered still further to the east and the fog hung more thickly on the horizon.

The barrel was nearer. At last he had begun to gain on it. He rowed with renewed vigor. Either the fish was tiring out or had stopped swimming altogether. Presently the dory b.u.mped against the keg.

Pulling in his oars and dropping them over the thwarts, he sprang forward and gaffed the buoy. A moment later he had lifted it aboard and was pulling in the warp.

The first ten feet came over the gunwale without any resistance; then he had to surge against the sag of a dead weight. The fish had either given up the ghost or was too exhausted to struggle.

Fifty fathoms is a long distance to drag two hundred pounds. Percy's arms began to ache before he had coiled in half the warp. Then he was treated to a surprise.

Several feet of line jerked through his hands. The fish had come to life again!

Percy closed his grip on the strands, but soon let them slip to avoid being pulled overboard. He started to make the line fast, but remembered Spurling's caution against the danger of tearing the dart out of his prey. So he tossed the barrel over again and began rowing after it.

After traveling a few rods, it stopped. Once more he took it aboard and began coiling in the warp. This time the fish must surely be spent. But no! Thirty fathoms had crossed the gunwale when the rope was whisked from his hands with even more violence than before.

Taken completely by surprise, Percy was wrenched forward. He hung for a moment over the side, twisted himself back in a strong effort to regain his balance, and incautiously planted his foot inside the unlaying coil.