Part 38 (1/2)

”Pull him right in, can't you?” the girl suggested.

He groaned, between clenched teeth--for the strain on his arm was torture.

”Yes, and have him break the line!” he cried. ”There he goes, under the boat, now! Paddle! Go ahead--paddle!”

She seized the oar, and while Stern fought the monster she set the banca in motion again. Now the fish was leaping wildly from side to side, zig-zagging, shaking at the hook as a bull-dog shakes an old boot. The leather cord hummed through the water, ripping and vibrating, taut as a fiddle-string. A long, silvery line of bubbles followed the vibrant cord.

_Flas.h.!.+_

High in air, lithe and graceful and very swift, a spurt of green and white--a long, slim curve of glistening power--a splash; and again the cord drew hard.

”Maskalonge!” Stern cried. ”Oh, we've got to land him--got to! Fifteen pounds if he's an ounce!”

Beatrice, flushed and eager, watched the fight with fascination.

”If I can bring him close, you strike--hit hard!” the man directed.

”Give it to him! He's our breakfast!”

Even in the excitement of the battle Stern realized how very beautiful this woman was. Her color was adorable--rose-leaves and cream. Her eyes were shot full of light and life and the joy of living; her loosened hair, wavy and rich and brown, half hid the graceful curve of her neck as she leaned to watch, to help him.

And strong determination seized him to master this great fish, to land it, to fling it at the woman's feet as his tribute and his trophy.

He had, in the days of long ago, fished in the Adirondack wildernesses. He had fished for tarpon in the Gulf; he had cast the fly along the brooks of Maine and lured the small-mouthed ba.s.s 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 s.h.i.+ning 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.