THE BATTLERS in 



Killer above him, the Voices told Old Black 

 Bass that the time had come. He rose 

 quicker than the eye could follow, reared 

 and raked his sawlike dorsal down the pick- 

 erel's belly. 



Small white scales like tiny flecks of 

 crystal silvered the water. Red gash 

 opened the pickerel's body, exposing the 

 viscera. Water rushed into the cavity. He 

 whirled belly-up like an overturned canoe. 



The fight was over. 



For a moment the other bass of the school 

 were motionless. They were still under the 

 spell of the great conflict. But when Old 

 Black Bass dropped wearily down, there 

 was awakening: opening and closing of 

 gills like a deep sigh; movement of relief; 

 glances toward the great fish that conveyed 

 sympathy and gratitude. 



He was gory, scarred, and weary. But 

 Friendly swam up to him, and like a blush- 

 ing maiden leading scarred but victorious 

 gladiator from an old Roman arena, she 

 squared her body with his and swam 

 proudly by his side to the deep. 



