il and finally the gleam
of his silver side. Closer he came and slowly circled around the boat,
eying me with great, accusing eyes. I measured him with a fisherman's
glance. What a great fish! Seven feet, I calculated, at the very least.

At this triumphant moment I made a horrible discovery. About six feet
from the leader the strands of the line had frayed, leaving only one
thread intact. My blood ran cold and the clammy sweat broke out on my
brow. My empire was not won; my first tarpon was as if he had never
been. But true to my fishing instincts, I held on morosely; tenderly I
handled him; with brooding care I riveted my eye on the frail place in
my line, and gently, ever so gently, I began to lead the silver king
shoreward. Every smallest move of his tail meant disaster to me, so when
he moved it I let go of the reel. Then I would have to coax him to swim
back again.

The boat touched the bank. I stood up and carefully headed my fish
toward the shore, and slid his head and shoulders out on the lily-pads.
One moment he lay there, glowing like mother-of-pearl, a rare fish,
fresh from the sea. Then, as Attalano warily reached for the leader, he
gave a gasp, a flop that deluged us with muddy water, and a lunge that
spelled freedom.

I watched him swim slowly away with my bright leader dragging beside
him. Is it not the loss of things which makes life bitter? What we have
gained is ours; what is lost is gone, whether fish, or use, or love, or
name, or fame.

I tried to put on a cheerful aspect for my guide. But it was too soon.
Attalano, wise old fellow, understood my case. A smile, warm and living,
flashed across his dark face as he spoke:

"Byme-by-tarpon."

Which defined his optimism and revived the failing spark within my
breast. It was, too, in the nature of a prophecy.

II

THE ISLAND OF THE DEAD

Strange wild adventures fall to the lot of a fisherman as well as to
that of a hunter. On board the _Monterey_, from Havana to Progreso,
Yucatan, I happened to fall into conversation with an English
globe-trotter who had just come from the Mont Pelee eruption. Like all
those wandering Englishmen, this one was exceedingly interesting. We
exchanged experiences, and I felt that I had indeed much to see and
learn of the romantic Old World.

In Merida, that wonderful tropic city of white towers and white streets
and white-gowned women, I ran into this Englishman again. I wanted to
see the magnificent ruin