University of Virginia Library

FLORENCE THE PIRATE.
His Summer operations in Barnegat Bay.

Having heard that fish were running right lively in Barnegat bay, a few
weeks ago, a Sun reporter went down to Waretown and hired a Jersey
skipper for two days. The skipper took the reporter across the bay to the
beach in an oyster boat. The party found accommodations at the house of
Mr. Cox, about two miles below the fighthouse. Mr. Cox was a piratical-looking
man, wearing a blue shirt, a baggy pair of pantaloons, buckled
around him with a leather strap, and an old straw hat. He was barefooted.
After shaking hands with Mr. Cox, the reporter passed out on the stoop,
where he met another pirate. The second pirate was dressed like the first.
His face was terribly tanned, and his nose was broad and very prettily colored.
He claimed acquaintance with the reporter. He proved to be Mr.
William J. Florence, a gentleman who is now exceedingly anxious to learn
the whereabouts of Mr. Thomas C. Fields. The pirate Florence was
smoking a very black pipe, and killing mosquitoes by the bushel.

A TALK WITH FLORENCE THE PIRATE.

“What brought you down here?” he said to the reporter.

“Well, I thought I'd come down and pick up a few bluefish, or kingfish,
or Spanish mackerel,” was the reply. “Are there any here?”

“Yes; lots of 'em,” responded the pirate Florence. “Did you ever
catch any sheepshead?”

“No,” answered the reporter, “I never did. Are there any sheepshead
here?”

“Yes; lots of 'em.” was the pirate's reply.

Reporter—Did you ever catch any?

The Pirate—No; I never caught any, but I'm going to take in some tomorrow
morning. There's lots of 'em here, out in the inlet.

Reporter—Have you caught any fish to-day?

The Pirate—A half dozen border ruffians and a dozen kingfish.

Reporter—What is a border ruffian? I never heard of such a fish before.

Florence the Pirate—Dunno what a border ruffian is? Why that's what
we call a bluefish. There's plenty of fish here—lots of 'em. You can get
all the weakers you want and all the kingfish you want. You jes' come down
here in October and you can stand on the shore of the bay and chuck out
and pull in all the bass you want; and when you get tired of pulling in
bass you can go out on the beach and chuck out and yank in all the border
ruffians you want.

HOW THE PIRATE CATCHES BASS.

Reporter—How large do the bass run.

Mr. Florence—Well, they're pretty good size, (refilling his pipe and
mashing a pint of mosquitoes.) Three, four, and some, seven pounds. But
talking of bass-fishing, there's no such bass-fishing anywhere around here
as there is out at No Man's Land. Why out there—I go there every year
—its a common thing to pull in a bass weighing a hundred pounds. I've
caught lots of 'em. A man that understands fishing and knows how to play

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'em right can get 'em in without any trouble. You stand on the rocks there
and sling out, and you'll get a bite in no time. It's the greatest place in the
world for bass. All you've got to do is to git up early in the morning, and
buy a barrel of soft clams. Then you git an ox-cart for a dollar, and git
the clams taken down to the beach. You see the beach is all rocks. Well,
you have a countryman open the clams, an' you stand on the rocks an'
begin to chuck 'em into the sea. The tow takes them out in a great, long
string, until you'll have a string of floatin' clams reachin' a thousand
feet out into the ocean. And then the bass they come a feedin' along
the shore an' they strike this string of clams, an' they come follerin' up
the clams, a-lookin' for suth'n' better until they reach the foot of the rocks.
Then's the time to snake 'em in. Put half a crab on your hook an' sling in, an'
you can catch all the big bass you want to. They'll weigh from fifty to a
hundred pound—yes, I've seen 'em weigh two hundred pound.

Reporter (very quietly)—Did you ever see one weighing 549 pounds?

The Great Pirate Florence (hesitating)—I've seen some mighty big uns,
I've seen 'em weigh well onto three hundred pounds.

THE PIRATE'S FISHING ROD.

Reporter—Do you use a rod to catch them with?

Pirate—Oh, yes! I want to show you my rod.

Here Mr. Florence knocked the ashes out of his pipe, slew another pint
of mosquitoes, and went into the bar-room. He soon returned with a rod a
little larger than a pipe stem, with a tip like a spear of timothy.

“That's the rod I always catch fish with,” he said, swinging the rod
around among the mosquitoes.

“What kind of fish do you catch with it?” asked the reporter.

“Well, I'm catching weakfish with it now.” was the answer.

Reporter—The weakfish must be small here.

Mr. Florence—Oh! they're pretty good size. I caught one that weighed
a pound and a half just now.

Reporter—Well that's a mighty light rod to fish with.

The Pirate Florence—That's the rod I always fish with. I never use a
a heavier rod.

Reporter—Do you mean to say that you catch hundred pound bass on
that rod?

Mr. Florence had evidently forgotten about the bass. He hesitated a
moment, but finally blurted out: “Yes, sir: I've pulled in a great many
hundred pound bass on that rod. You see, if you only know how to fish,
playing 'em judiciously like, it's easy enough to get 'em in. I never lose a
bass.”

TRYING FLORENCE'S ROD.

The reporter had got enough. He would have doubted Mr. Florence's
word if he had not been a gentleman. An hour after supper, the party
went out in a boat. Mr. Florence stuck the half of a shedder-crab upon
his hook, spat upon it, and rose up from his seat. There was a flourish like
that of an old-fashioned stage driver before he cracks his whip, then a
singing of the reel and the shedder-crab struck the water nearly half way
across the bay.

“You see, everything's in playing your fish,” said Mr. Florence. At
that moment he got a bite. The fish played Mr. Florence. He jerked the
end of his pole into the water, yanked his reel out of place, and then walked
away with his line.

“I'll bet $5 that's a cussed stingaree,” said the pirate Florence, swelling
up in the face and abdomen, and laying down his rod in disgust. The reporter
offered him a leader and swivel, with an excellent sinker and two
cuttyhunk hooks, but the stingaree had made Mr. Florence hungry, and he
insisted upon going in to supper. So the fishermen went in, Florence being
remarkably quiet.

STORY OF THE PIRATE FLORENCE.

At midnight the party sat upon the verandah, and somebody clicked
the spring, and set Mr. Florence to talking again. He said:

“There used to be lots of bass in the Harlem river up at McComb's
Dam, where I keep my hotel. Fellers used to set on the bridge a fishing
all day long, and they always had good luck. Now there ain't any bass
there. Somehow or other the bass have all left, and these infernal toad-fish
have taken their place. (Mr. Florence here took an intermission and
killed a peck of mosquitoes.) Last summer as I was a setting on the stoop
in front of the hotel, a big Englishman came along. He hed a white plug
hat on, two feet high, with a rim about as wide as the handle of a teaspoon,
and he hed a big green bag under his arm, and he hed a leather valise
swung over his shoulder. He come up to me and he says, `His there any
fishink 'ere, sir?' Says I, `Yes, lots of 'em.' Says he, `I beg pawdon.
Might I hask you what's the best-kind o' fish you catch 'ere?' `Well,'
says I, `the best kind of fish you get here is what we call a toad fish.'
`Blawst my bloody heyes,' he says, `that's a hextraordinary name for a
fish. Is it a good heatink fish?' `Oh! It's a delicious fish,' I said; `melts
in your mouth like butter. Did you ever fish much?' I asked him. `Well'
he said, `I used to catch sawmon in Hingland and Scotland, but I never
did any fishink in America, and as hi was riding along 'ere the hother day,
hi saw some gentlemen a fishink, and I resolved to come hup and try my
luck. Hi used to be a great sawmon fisherman. What bait do you use-for
these toad fish?' `Crabs,' says I. `Well, really,' says he, `that's

A VERY HEXTRAORDINARY BAIT,

you know. Where can I purchase some of these crabs?' `Oh!' says I,
`you can get 'em of that boy there,' and I showed him a little feller who
had a basket of crabs to sell,” (Here Mr. Florence began to thrash around
again, and succeeded in killing another peck of mosquitoes.) “Well, the
Englishman, he called the boy up and began to pick the crabs out of his
basket. I don't believe he ever saw a crab before. Two of the crabs got
hold of his fingers and he danced around like a wild Indian. The boy
laughed and picked out a half-dozen crabs for him, himself. The Englishman
kicked 'em one side with his boot, and offered the boy a ten cent stamp.
The little feller looked at him and says, `Say; see here. This won't do.
Them crabs is two dollars a dozen; them is. Them's shedders; them is.'
The Englishman at first thought the boy was trying to cheat him, but when
I explained the thing to him he gave the boy a dollar and said. `Blawst
my bloody heyes if I believe I'll get a dollar's worth of fish.' I went into
the house and the boy cleared out, but I watched the Englishman out of
the window. He looked at the crabs about five minutes. Then he deliberately
went off and lugged a couple of big stones up to the crabs. Then he
took the stones and mashed up the crabs. The first thing I knew he had
his bag on the ground and began drawing the joints of his pole out. There
were about twenty joints, and when he got all the joints fitted into the
sockets it was the d—dest looking pole that you ever saw. It reached half

way down to Harlem. Then he went into his leather valise and

GOT OUT A REEL.

It was a wooden reel. It would fill a barrel and looked like an old fashioned
spinning wheel. Well, when I saw that reel I thought I'd die. I went
out to the Englishman and took a look at it. He looked as though he was
going to ketch all the fish in the river. `What kind of a rod is that?' says
I. He says, `That's the rod that I catch sawmon with. Hit's a beauty,
hisn't it?' `Yes,' says I, `it's a beauty. I never saw one like it before.'
`No.' he says, `the Hamericans don't know 'ow to make fishink rods.' Then
he picked up his crabs and his green bag an' his valise, an' he sailed off up
onto the bridge, until he got alongside of old Judge Smith, who sat there
awastin' crabs, drinkin' out of a black bottle, and occasionally drawin' in a
small fish. You'd ought to have seen the look on the old Judge's face
when he saw the Englishman's rod. `Catching hanythink?' says the Englishman
to the Judge. `Putty fair luck,' the Judge said, and added: `That's
a great rod you got there.' `Yes,' answered the Englishman, as if he was
tickled at the Judge's observation, `'tis a great rod.' The Judge said: `I'd
be a little careful with that rod if I were in your place.' `Why?' said the
Englishman, apparently alarmed. `Do you think hanybody would steal
it?' `No,' says the Judge, `but if you go to flingin' it around in the sky
too wild, you might knock the points off of some of the stars.' Well, the
Englishman, he didn't like that. He turned to me and said that

THE JUDGE WAS A GUYING HIM.

Then he rigged up a hook, put a piece of mashed crab on it, looked around
behind him, and give the rod a swing. He had a good, heavy sinker on. I
told him he wanted a heavy sinker, because the tide was strong. Well, the
old reel went to bouncin', and the bait flew a quarter of a mile down the
river, when all of a sudden the line kinked, and away went the mashed
crab. I could see it strike the 'butment of the Harlem bridge. But the
Englishman, he didn't know it. He thought it was all right. He set down
and waited for two hours, as patient as any man you ever see, for a bite.
Finally I told him that I guessed he didn't have any bait onto his hook,
and he began to turn his spinnin' wheel to get his line in. It took him a
a quarter of an hour to reach the hook. 'Blawst my bloody heyes,' he said
`if they bain't got the bait.' `Why,' says I, `your bait didn't stay on. I
saw it fly off the hook 'fore it reached the water.' He looked at me kinder
reproachful like, but he didn't say a word. Then he went down into his
leather valise again and pulled out a piece of string. Then he picked up a
little mashed crab and tied it on to the hook. He was about six foot high,
with yeller side whiskers, thin as a rail, and when he got up with that white
plug hat and that little rim, and went to throw out again he was the most
perfect scarecrow that you ever saw. He give her a send with all his might,
and the bait struck just under Harlem bridge. In about a minute he had a
bite. You'd oughter seen

OLD JUDGE SMITH.

I thought he'd split himself a laughin'. The Englishman's fish was a heavy
one. He pulled like a border ruffian. I thought it was a border ruffian first.
He kept yanking away at that old wooden reel about fifteen minutes, and
then the fish began to come up out of the water. What do you think it
was?”

Reporter—Was it a dog fish?

Florence the Pirate (laughing)—No. It was the biggest toad-fish that

I ever saw. It would have weighed three pounds and a half if it weighed
an ounce. Well, the Englishman got him on to the bridge, and old Judge
Smith and me, we kept a watchin' him. The hook was clear down the fish's
throat The Englishman held him up by his line and looked in the fish's
mouth. Then he grabbed him by the belly with his left hand, and stuck
his right hand into his mouth to git out the hook. The toad-fish closed on
him like a vise. Judge Smith looked up very quiet and says, “Have you
got him?” “Yes.” says the Englishman, “and blawst my bloody heyes,
hif he bain't got me.” If you'd 'a seen him you'd 'a died a laughing.
He got up on his tiptoes and tried to get his hand out of the fish's mouth.
But the toad-fish held on like a Methodist minister on to a convert, and
wouldn't let go. The Britisher began to dance, and the first thing you
knew away went his pole, wooden reel and all, off the bridge. The
Judge and me, we sot like knots on a log, looking into the water. After
about ten minutes

THE ENGLISHMAN GOT THE FISH DOWN

on to the bridge and put his big foot on him. Then he got out his pocketknife
and went to work at him. It took him fifteen minutes to get his
fingers out, and when he did get 'em out they looked as though they'd been
run through a threshin' machine. He wound 'em up in his handkerchief and
began to pull in his line. The hook was still in the fish's mouth. I believe
there was at least a thousand feet of line before the reel gave to the rod,
but he finally got the rod up. Then he cut the hook from the line and
worked the line on to the reel. Then he unjointed his rod, put it in the
green bag, chucked his spinnin' wheel into his valise and sailed down the lane
at a 2:40 gait without saying a word to any one, leavin' the toad fish and
the hook within two feet of Judge Smith's basket. Then Judge Smith
and me, we emptied the black bottle, and the Judge laughed so loud
that the people came runnin' over from Morrisania to see what was the
matter.”

Here Mr. Florence killed a bushel of mosquitoes and went so bed.

AFTER SHEEPSHEAD.

The reporter slept upon a bedtick filled with corncobs, and dreamed of
pinhooks and thousand pound bass. All night long the melancholy groaning
of the surf was heard. In the morning he was up ahead of the sun.
The Pirate Florence arose at the same time, and immediately opened hostilities
upon the mosquitoes, varying the warfare by an attack upon Mr.
Cox's applejack.

“The tide will be right in about an hour an a half now for the sheepshead,”
he said, as he lighted his morning pipe.

“Are you sure of catching any?” asked the reporter.

“Oh, yes, lots uv 'em,” was the reply. “All you've got to do is to
foller me, an I'll put you right on to the ground. You can fill a boat with
'em in two hours. All you want is some soft clams. You don't open
the shell, you know, but jest stick your hook into the mouth uv the clam,
and chuck it overboard with a heavy sinker, and the fust thing you know
you'll feel a heavy tug at the hook. That's the sheepshead a mashin' the
clam in his teeth. When he gits to suckin' the clam out he'll give the
hook another tug, an' then's the time that you want to give a jerk an'
fasten him.” [Here Mr. Florence came to close quarters with a gally-nipper,
and upset his pipe, setting his overalls on fire, and creating a commotion
generally.]

After breakfast the Pirate got his traps together, boarded a tiny catboat
at the wharf, told the Sun reportor to follow him, hoisted sail, and
sped for the sheepshead ground. His boat was so light that she ran like
a water-spider over sand bars covered with scarcely two inches of water.
In half an hour the Pirate was anchored near the Light, and began fishing.

ON THE GROUNDS.

The reporter attempted to follow him in his Jersey lugger, but she drew
so much water that the skipper protested. He tacked this way and that,
avoiding a bar here and there, and banged about the bay like a floating
wash tub. He sailed at least ten miles, and was not able to swing-to
under the Light until nearly 11, a. m. The Pirate had then been fishing
about four hours. His nose was redder than usual, but he was remarkably
quiet, and did not speak until spoken to. As the lugger lowered her sail
and dropped anchor, the reporter shouted, “What luck, Mr. Florence?”

“Well, so, so—pretty fair; but they ain't a bitin' much,” was the response.

Reporter—Have you caught any?

Florence the Pirate—Yes, a few; but they ain't a bitin' much.

Reporter—What do you catch?

The Pirate—Well, a few, that's all. They ain't a bitin' much.

Reporter—Have you caught.any sheepshead?

Mr. Florence (very quietly)—Sheepshead? Well, yes, I've got one or
two. They ain't a bitin' much though.

Reporter—Hold up your string. Let me see them.

Mr. Florence arose from his seat very deliberately, went to the stern of
his boat and with the greatest difficulty pulled out of the water the finest
string of sheepshead that the reporter ever saw. There were eight of them,
weighing from twelve to fifteen pounds apiece. Their white teeth glistened
in the sunlight like pearls. Mr. Florence exhibited them with an air of
quiet triumph, and consoled the reporter by telling him that he caught them
all within an hour, and that they had stopped biting two hours before.

Then the reporter began to fish. The tide was so strong tbat an old-fashioned
clock weight would have floated like a cork. Still the reporter
fished, occasionally pulling in a sea-bass about the size of a smelt, but beyond
this nothing. Half an hour later

THE PIRATE HOISTED SAIL,

and ran alongside the lugger.

“There's no use uv your fishin' here any longer,” he said; “the tide's
wrong, and you won't git a sheepshead bite if you sit here all day. I'm a
goin' over to the weakfish ground. If you'll foller me you can fill your
boat with weakers inside uv an hour.”

“I didn't come down to Barnegat Bay to catch weakfish,” answered the
reporter. “I can catch plenty of them nearer New York.”

The Pirate—Well, don't be a fool. The tide's wrong. You can't catch
any sheepshead on this tide. You've got to come early in the mornin' for
those fellers.

Reporter (resignedly)—Well, I shall stay here a week but what I shall
catch some of them.

Florence—You better come with me. A weaker's a game fish, and you
can't have better sport.

The reporter again declined. Florence spent twenty minutes in a vain

effort to coax him away, and finally shot off for the weakfish ground in his
winged catboat.

MURDER WILL OUT.

After fishing for three hours, catching nothing but a dogfish, the reporter
took a small boat, and went ashore. He found a one-legged hotel
near the lighthouse, and entered the bar-room. A frowsy-looking, barefooted
wrecker, in a red flannel shirt, stood leaning on the bar, and gazing
sleepily at the bottles behind the bar-keeper:

“Will you take something?” asked the reporter.

“Y-a-s,” drawled the wrecker, turning to the bartender. “Gimme sum
cider sperrets, Tommy.”

Tommy handed down the bottle. The wrecker filled a pint tumbler to
the brim with apple jack, and raised it to his mouth. It disappeared like
magic. The reporter sarcastically asked the wrecker if he wouldn't try
another glass.

“Y-a-s,” he answered. “Gimme sum more cider sperrets, Tommy.”

The pint tumbler was again filled and emptied. The wrecker wiped his
mouth on the sleeve of his red flannel shirt, and looked at the reporter for
the first time.

Is there any fishing around here?” asked the reporter.

“Y-a-s, if you know how to fish,” the wrecker replied. “Gurcy purchy
fish poles hain't much good here.”

“What do you catch around here?” the reporter inquired.

“Y-a-s. You catch what gits holt uv your hook if you know how to
fish,” he answered. “Bluefish, bass, fluke, weakfish, sheepshead—”

Reporter (interrupting)—Did you ever catch any sheepshead here?

Wrecker—Y-a-s. I catched eight on 'em out in the inlet this morning.

Reporter—Where are they?

Wrecker—Sold 'em to a fat red-nosed Yorker for thirty cents a pound.

That was enough. The reporter hoisted sail, and landed at Secor's
Hotel, Tom's river.

The Pirate arrived in New York that night, and distributed the sheepshead
among his friends. He told them that he didn't have much luck, and
left them with the impression that it was a very common thing for him to
run out and pull in thirty or forty sheepshead in an hour.—N. Y. Sun

Mad.—One of the baggage masters of a station between Worcestor and
Boston, is a fat, good-natured, droll fellow, whose jokes have become quite
popular on the road. His name is Bill. A short time since, while in the
performance of his duties in checking baggage, an ugly little Scotch terrier
got in his way, and he gave him a smart kick, which sent him over the track
yelling. The owner of the dog soon appeared in high dudgeon wanting to
know why he kicked the dog. “Was that your dog!” asked Bill, with
the usual drawl. “Certainly it was! what right had you to kick him?”
“He's mad,” said Bill. “No, he's not mad, either.” said the owner. “Well,
I should be if anybody kicked me in that way,” responded Bill.

A man died in Seneca Falls, N. Y., the other day, and in his will he left
“that old liar and tattler, the Widow Jones, two cents.”