the mouth shut on the wire leader and tying the hook good so it couldn’t slip and so the bait would troll smooth without spinning.
He’s a real black nigger, smart and gloomy, with blue voodoo beads around his neck under his shirt, and an old straw hat. What he liked to do on board was sleep and read the papers. But he put on a nice bait and he was fast.
“Can’t you put on a bait like that, captain?” Johnson asked me.
“Yes, sir.”
“Why do you carry a nigger to do it?”
“When the big fish run you’ll see,” I told him.
“What’s the idea?”
“The nigger can do it faster than I can.”
“Can’t Eddy do it?”
“No, sir.”
“It seems an unnecessary expense to me.” He’d been giving the nigger a dollar a day and the nigger had been on a rumba every night. I could see him getting sleepy already.
“He’s necessary,” I said.
By then we had passed the smacks with their fish cars anchored in front of Cabanas and the skiffs anchored fishing for mutton fish on the rock bottom by the Morro, and I headed her out where the gulf made a dark line. Eddy put the two big teasers out and the nigger had baits on three rods.
The stream was in almost to soundings and as we
