CHAPTER II

THE SEA HORSE

THIS is the tale of a horse-not the horse's tail of which Mark Twain so aptly wrote-but the story of a real, live, flesh-and-blood equine, who reigned supreme on a lonely island where the gray sand dunes faced the miles of roaring breakers, and the nesting sea-birds paid homage to his solitary court.

'Twas early summer, when the ocean was at its bluest, the beaches at their whitest, and the fishing coming into its glory, that we hauled anchor on the Nepenthe and set sail. Far southward over the sparkling reaches of old Barnegat, past lonely whitecapped inlets, where the outgoing tide moaned a sad farewell, we sped on our way, our thoughts and time, for the present, devoted entirely to that one absorbing topic which all good surf fishermen should hold paramount to their business, home, and family— channel-bass.

As dusk rose out of the east and pressed close the dying sun, we came to anchor in the shelter of the fairest and loneliest of sandy islands that wards off the stern Atlantic along the coast of southern Jersey.

But another boat had preceded us, a boat we knew, one containing old friends, such as Sid, and

Bill, and Harry, and Link, companions of many memories and of former glorious days along the shifting shoals.

On this barren sand spit stood a coast guard station, the only touch of humanity visible for many miles. Peopled by a bluff and hardy crew, who welcomed the infrequent visitor in a manner nothing less than royal, it was always, to us, an oasis, to which we repaired on lazy summer evenings, or on stormswept autumn nights, when the wild nor'easters beat mercilessly down upon the desert coast.

We had a hasty supper on board, and made ready to hike across the dunes to the beach, for the tide would be high around two the next morning, and we must fish it up its entire length.

A heavy mist had set in from the sea when we left the boats. We trudged silently along, in two's and three's, the lanterns blinking and swinging like great goblin fireflies through the gray gloom.

Against the great curtain of fog our shadows appeared of Gargantuan proportions, now dwindling to little gnome-like figures, now suddenly shooting again to a height of thirty feet or more. It was weird. It was uncanny. And we spoke in whispers, as if perhaps we had provoked the spirits of the buccaneers who used to roam these shores, and who, perhaps, were accompanying us to guard against our finding their hidden riches.

The slough at last. And as we assembled our tackle, and one by one disappeared in the darkness,

the ghostly shadows went also each shadow accompanying the man he was guarding.

As I left the cheery glow of the lantern, my shadow gradually melted into the mist, but I felt all the same that he was still out there in the void, watching and waiting lest I should approach too near the secret burial place.

I waded out on a long bar, over which in the semidarkness I could see the white lines of surf rolling in frothy windrows. Making my cast, I stepped back and waited. For a long while-nothing. I could feel the slapping of the water against my legs. My feet sanded over and I shifted my position several times.

Then I became aware that something out there in the black pit ahead of me was fooling with my bait. Just a slight movement, hardly perceptible, but there just the same. Whether it was a channelbass or a skate I could not tell. So I played safe and waited. Nothing happened and I reeled in to find my bait apparently untouched. But I could not have been mistaken. My nerves and senses were keyed up to the point where the slightest movement on the ocean floor made itself felt along the telegraphic communication of my line.

I cast again and again waited. My heart beat with a slow throb against my breast. Out there might be-who knew? Perhaps the world's record bass. Such is the eternal hope of the fisherman.

As I stood there, scarcely daring to breathe, I became aware of something in the gloom off to my