Beyond The Great Oblivion | Page 6

fly along the brooks of Maine and lured the
small-mouthed bass with floating bait on many a lake and stream. He had even fished in a
Rocky Mountain torrent, and out on the far Columbia, when failure to succeed meant
hunger.
But this experience was unique. Never had he fished all alone in the world with a loved
woman who depended on his skill for her food, her life, her everything.
Forgotten now the wounded arm, the crude and absurd implements; forgotten everything
but just that sole, indomitable thought: "I've got to win!"
Came now a lull in the struggles of the monster. Stern hauled in. Another rush, met by a

paying-out, a gradual tautening of the line, a strong and steady pull.
"He's tiring," exulted Stern. "Be ready when I bring him close!"
Again the fish broke cover; again it dived; but now its strength was lessening fast.
Allan hauled in.
Now, far down in the clear depths, they could both see the darting, flickering shaft of
white and green.
"Up he comes now! Give it to him, hard!"
As Stern brought him to the surface, Beatrice struck with the paddle--once, twice, with
magnificent strength and judgment.
Over the gunwale of the banca, in a sparkle of flying spray, silvery in the morning sun,
the maskalonge gleamed.
Excited and happy as a child, Beatrice clapped her hands. Stern seized the paddle as she
let it fall. A moment later the huge fish, stunned and dying, lay in the bottom of the boat,
its gills rising, falling in convulsive gasps, its body quivering, scales shining in the
sunlight--a thing of wondrous beauty, a promise of the feast for two strong, healthy
humans.
Stern dried his brow on the back of his hand and drew a deep breath, for the morning was
already warm and the labor had been hard.
"Now," said he, and smiled, "now a nice little pile of dead wood on the beach, a curl of
birch-bark and a handful of pine punk and grass--a touch of the flint and steel! Then this,"
and he pointed at the maskalonge, "broiled on a pointed stick, with a handful of
checkerberries for dessert, and I think you and I will be about ready to begin work in
earnest!"
He knelt and kissed her--a kiss that she returned--and then, slowly, happily, and filled
with the joy of comradeship, they drove their banca once more to the white and gleaming
beach.


CHAPTER IV
THE GOLDEN AGE
Stern's plans of hard work for the immediate present had to be deferred a little, for in
spite of his perfect health, the spear-thrust in his arm--lacking the proper treatment, and

irritated by his labor in catching the big fish--developed swelling and soreness. A little
fever even set in the second day. And though he was eager to go out fishing again,
Beatrice appointed herself his nurse and guardian, and withheld permission.
They lived for some days on the excellent flesh of the maskalonge, on clams from the
beach--enormous clams of delicious flavor--on a new fruit with a pinkish meat, which
grew abundantly in the thickets and somewhat resembled breadfruit; on wild
asparagus-sprouts, and on the few squirrels that Stern was able to "pot" with his revolver
from the shelter of the leafy little camping-place they had arranged near the river.
Though Beatrice worked many hours all alone in the bungalow, sweeping it with a broom
made of twigs lashed to a pole, and trying to bring the place into order, it was still no fit
habitation.
She would not even let the man try to help her, but insisted on his keeping quiet in their
camp. This lay under the shelter of a thick-foliaged oak at the southern end of the beach.
The perfect weather and the presence of a three-quarters moon at night invited them to
sleep out under the sky.
"There'll be plenty of time for the bungalow," she said, "when it rains. As long as we
have fair June weather like this no roof shall cover me!"
Singularly enough, there were no mosquitoes. In the thousand years that had elapsed,
they might either have shifted their habitat from eastern America, or else some obscure
evolutionary process might have wiped them out entirely. At any rate, none existed, for
which the two adventurers gave thanks.
Wild beasts they feared not. Though now and then they heard the yell of a wildcat far
back in the woods, or the tramping of an occasional bulk through the forest, and though
once a cinnamon bear poked his muzzle out into the clearing, sniffed and departed with a
grunt of disapproval, they could not bring themselves to any realization of animals as a
real peril. Their camp-fire burned high all night, heaped with driftwood and windfalls;
and