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waters.
    The extent and abundance of this annual migration of yellow-fin tuna of f the South Coast should be ascertained; and the result might well be a tremendous business for Australians, and what is more, a valuable an d inexpensive food supply bound to take place of the more expensive meats.
    In the United States the consumption of fish as food has increased fort y per cent in the last ten years.

    Chapter V
    Crossing the river on the ferry at Bateman Bay, from which the wonderfu l Toll Gates can be seen out at sea, I conceived an idea that this plac e had marvelous potentialities for fishing. As a matter of fact, the plac e haunted me so that I went back, motored all around the bay, walked ou t upon the many wooded capes that projected far out toward the sentine l Toll Gates, patrolled the curved sandy beaches, and finally interviewe d the market fishermen. The result was that I broke camp at Bermagui an d chose a lovely site three miles out from Bateman Bay, where we pitche d camp anew. It turned out that the vision in my mind's eye had been right.
    This camp was the most beautiful and satisfactory of all the hundreds o f camps I have had in different countries. How it will turn out from a fishing standpoint remains to be seen. But I would like to gamble on m y instinct.
    I fished all the way up from Bermagui, and the distance must have bee n all of fifty miles. I trolled a good-sized bonito for eight hour s without a rise. The north-east breeze had freshened the day, and at fou r o'clock the sea was ridged white and blue. It was rough enough to make m e hold on to my chair with one hand and my rod in the other. I wanted t o take the first swordfish in to Bateman Bay.
    There was a long cape to the north-west, standing far out into the ocean.
    It appeared we would never reach it. But at last we did, and saw th e grand opening of Bateman Bay guarded by those noble Toll Gates, grea t bare rocks, standing aloof and august, facing the sea, and shadowed wit h the western sunset lights.
    It was with most unusual excitement that I sighted the familiar an d thrilling purple flashes of a swordfish back of my bait. "There he is!"
    And he had the bait, to swerve and speed away.
    "Well, it's about time. Nine hours!" called Peter, as he threw out th e clutch. "Be sure you hook him."
    I made sure of that, and for half an hour, in a rough sea, I had a har d fight with a game fish. He almost got away. We were proud to run into th e little cove we had renamed Crescent Bay, where my camp had been pitche d while I fished the day through.
    There was an enthusiastic crowd waiting, but nothing to the large an d vociferous one that greeted us when we trucked the swordfish up to town.
    Most, in fact almost all, of the inhabitants had never seen a swordfish.
    The reception the townspeople gave me was second only to what they gav e the fish. So my start at Bateman Bay was auspicious.
    Then, following that lucky opening, we had bad weather. Days of storm! N o sooner would it clear up and give us hope of sunshine and warmth when i t blew again. From all directions!
    We ran out almost every day, certainly the days that it was possible t o fish. We did not see a swordfish. I was not discouraged at this, becaus e I have learned that patience and endurance are imperative for a deep-se a fisherman. Besides, we occasionally hooked a shark, and really I wanted a big shark more keenly than a swordfish.
    After ten days the weather cleared and grew warm. That very firs t morning, drifting with a bait deep off Black Rock, I had a magnificen t strike which I was sure came from a black Marlin. He took the bai t easily, slowly made off, began to go faster and faster, and rise to th e surface, until Peter and I yelled for the inevitable jump. It did no t come. That fish got rid of the hook without leaping or showing his size; a nd I was a bitterly disappointed angler.
    I did not, however, have long to bemoan my bad fortune. The camera-boa t hooked up with a fish,