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110 Swordfishing"Want to come along?" said Tom."Yes," I said. "I want to get someportraits at close range.""You'll get a chance, all right," he repliedwith a grin. "Look out you don'tspoil your kodak."We rowed toward the keg, which hadresumed its journey and was passing ourbow at a lively rate. Tom swung theyou'd get into trouble quicker than Iwould. A green hand makes harderwork. The fish seems to get on to him.I've only been plugged twice, and I'vebeen swordfishing all my life—slow downthere, you devil!"The last was to the fish, which wastaking over the side the hard-earned pileof line that Tom had coiled in the dory.The swordfish at close range.dory alongside and picked it up. Wewere fast to the swordfish, and our dorycommenced to move over the waves propelledby an unseen power."Kind of like the whaler's sleigh-ride,"said Tom. " Swordfishing's like whalingin many ways. You harpoon them. Youhaul them from a small boat, and there'sa chance that you'll get yours before yousee the last of them.""I've hauled a few fish myself andnever seen anything happen," I said."It isn't likely," he replied. "ButHe held the rope against the thwart andgave it out grudgingly by the yard. Itgroaned against the gunwale, and thedory skipped through the sea."The iron went right through him,"said Tom. "No danger of his gettingaway. Keep your feet clear of thosecoils! If you should get a turn aroundyour leg, it would be all off—for you andthe fish both. There he comes! It willsoon be over now.""Did you ever hear of any one beinghurt?" I asked him.