“He can't have gone,”he said.“Christ knows he can't have gone.He's making a turn.Maybe he has been hooked before and he remembers something of it.”
“Eat it a little more,”he said.“ Eat it well.”
Nothing happened.The fish just moved away slowly and the old man could not raise him an inch.His line was strong and made for heavy fish and he held it against his back until it was so taut that beads of water were jumping from it.Then it began to make a slow hissing sound in the water and he still held it,bracing himself against the thwart and leaning back against the pull.The boat began to move slowly off toward the northwest.
Just then,watching his lines,he saw one of the projecting green sticks dip sharply.
“He'll take it,”the old man said aloud.“God help him to take it.”
Eat it so that the point of the hook goes into your heart and kills you,he thought,Come up easy and let me put the harpoon into you.All right.Are you ready?Have you been long enough at table?
“It was only his turn,”he said.“ He'll take it.”
“Yes,”he said.“Yes,”and shipped his oars without bumping the boat.He reached out for the line and held it softly between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. He felt no strain nor weight and he held the line lightly.Then it came again.This time it was a tentative pull,not solid nor heavy,and he knew exactly what it was.One hundred fathoms down a marlin was eating the sardines that covered the point and the shank of the hook where the hand-forged hook projected from the head of the small tuna.