He
battled with the game all the afternoon and evening, overcame it at "the
dead waste and middle of the night," and towed it back to the beach,
landing after thirteen hours' continuous work. Tom accomplished the feat
in a strong breeze and with a turtle diving and tugging, when he might
have cut the line at any moment and paddled home comfortably.
He is as much at home on the top of a bloodwood tree, hanging round a
swaying limb while cutting out a "bee nest," as in a frail bark canoe
among the sharks on the skirts of a shoal of bonito.
As we neared the beach one day a big sea-mullet came into view. Without
a moment's hesitation, and as it flashed past the boat, Tom, using
the oar as a spear, hit the slippery fish with such precision and force
as to impale it. He will harpoon a turtle as it rushes away from the
boat, 5 feet beneath the surface, with the coolness of a
billiard-player, and with unerring accuracy "taking off" for the speed
of the boat and the refraction of the water. All the ways and habits of
fish, and their favourite feeding-grounds, are to him as pages of an open
book.
A groper, more voracious and bolder than usual, followed a safely-hooked
perch from the dim coral garden, worrying it like a bull-dog.
Pages:
450
451
452
453
454
455
456
457
458
459
460
461
462
463
464
465
466
467
468
469
470
471
472
473
474