THE BATTLERS 109 



all, the gills. For this reason he was the 

 Killer, so known of his school. 



But Old Black Bass kept on. Back and 

 forth he followed the agile Killer, lidless 

 eyes unwavering. He bore the thrusts with- 

 out sign, received the blows with no dimin- 

 ishing of his watchfulness. 



The voices had told him what to do, 

 though he had never done it before. And 

 he was awaiting opportunity to obey them. 

 Sooner or later he knew the opening would 

 come. 



But it must hurry. Already two gill 

 slits hung like frayed strings at his cheek. 

 Already red wound clung welt-like to his 

 side. And still the Killer charged. His 

 movements seemed effortless, his endurance 

 unbelievable. More than once Old Black 

 Bass felt his nerves on the point of snapping 

 before the ubiquitous white streak and his 

 endless motion. 



But he endured. It was the greatest fight 

 that ever was waged or ever should be 

 fought again. And the outcome would be 

 of greater significance than either of the two 

 fish dreamed. For it would answer the 

 question among men often asked, as to 



