He did not take it though.He was gone and the old man felt nothing.
He waited with the line between his thumb and his finger,watching it and the other lines at the same time for the fish might have swum up or down.Then came the same delicate pulling touch again.
This far out,he must be huge in this month,he thought.Eat them,fish.Eat them.Please eat them.How fresh they are and you down there six hundred feet in that cold water in the dark.Make another turn in the dark and come back and eat them.
“He'll take it,”the old man said aloud.“God help him to 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.
“Eat it a little more,”he said.“ Eat it well.”
Just then,watching his lines,he saw one of the projecting green sticks dip sharply.
The old man held the line delicately,and softly,with his left hand,unleashed it from the stick.Now he could let it run through his fingers without the fish feeling any tension .