End of the Tiger Read Online Free PDF

when he did, he’d do a better job than Wolta had. Only Wolta seemed oblivious of the fact that enormous luck had kept his line from snapping.
    We were out a good dozen miles, and the sun was almost directly overhead, making a dazzling glare on the blue sea.
    The time went by slowly. Wolta said, “Somebody catch something. I want some more fishing.” He waited a few minutes. He said, “Jimmy, if you don’t have anything by three o’clock, I’m taking over.”
    I said, “Don’t you think we ought to stick to the rules?”
    “Okay, Jimmy?” Wolta said. “Three o’clock?”
    Jimmy didn’t look at me. He said, “Sure, Lew.”
    The older man had him buffaloed. I knew the signs. I liked Gerran. So all I could do was to think that it was just too bad.
    While I was wondering how Gerran got himself tied up with Wolta, Pedro hissed and said in Spanish, “There is a monstrous fish to starboard, senor.”
    I searched the sea until I saw it. It was too close. There wasn’t time for me to reel in and change to the boat rod. This fish wasn’t going to be brought in on my tackle.
    For a moment I had a yen to try for him, anyway. But I reeled in quickly.
    Wolta said, “What’s up? Why’re you reeling in?”
    At first the sun was in my eyes. And then I saw him coming in like a freight train. He slapped Jimmy’s bait out of the water. It fell dead, free of the clothespin, and the fish took it. Jimmy hit it perfectly, four times. The huge fish was on his way out to sea when he felt a nasty little jab inside his jaw. He felt a jab and a tugging weight. To free himself of it, he went upstairs. He went up in a shower of spray—five hundred pounds of blue marlin.
    Wolta yelled in astonishment. A wide grin split Pedro’s face. The hands gabbled in excitement. There aren’t manyfish like that one off Acapulco. Jimmy didn’t give him any slack when he jumped again and again. Then the big blue headed for off and beyond, and the reel sang a high shrill song of irresistible power.
    Jimmy should have been using a 30 ounce tip, a 16/0 reel and 54-thread line. In relation to the blue, his tackle was as relatively light as mine was for sail. Jimmy held the rod and gave us one taut, startled look as Pedro and I grabbed the straps and strapped him to the chair.
    The reel continued to sing, and the line going into the water was a white hissing streak. I began to pray to Aztec gods for the big fish to get tired of that straight line. Pedro was back at the wheel. He jammed it into reverse and backed along the line of flight of the fish. The powersong diminished in pitch a few notes, but still the monster drove on, trying to run from the pain in his jaw. He made a leap a full fifteen hundred feet from the boat. He was so far away that he looked like a minnow. Pedro stopped backing instantly to keep from piling up slack.
    Jimmy began to pull on the fish. It was going at right angles to the boat. Pedro kept the boat in a small turn to keep the fish centered over the stern. With both hands on the rod, Jimmy pulled slowly, pulling the rod from a horizontal to a vertical position. Then, as he lowered it quickly, he reeled in a few feet of the precious line. It was heartbreakingly slow compared to the speed at which it had gone out. Fifty times he strained to pull up on the rod, gaining a few feet each time, and then the fish, undiminished in power, took it all away from him again.
    We were covering a lot of ground. Every time the fish took off, Pedro would keep after it, conserving that precious line. Once the spool showed as the fish stopped his run and jumped.
    I glanced at my wristwatch. Forty minutes so far. The sweat poured off Jimmy Gerran, and his shirt looked as though he had been doused with a bucket of water. I kept encouraging him in low tones. I knew what the fight was taking out of him. Heave up and reel in, heave up and reel in. Minute after minute.
    Then the fish came like an express train, right for theboat, its miniature sail