Chapter XVIII: Back in the Coal Age

The rain had completely ceased. The wind was dying down. But the surges of the angry sea continued to break over Scarface's standing-place.

The body he clasped was that of his beloved Borghild. Was she dead? And, if not, how could he administer first aid on that wave-washed rock?

Shaking the water out of his black beard, he glanced around him in despair. To the leeward, through the mist and spray, he finally made out a spit of sand not wholly covered by the waves. It was her only chance for life! So he plunged into the surf with his precious burden and tried to swim. He was rapidly carried, more by the waves than by his own exertions, toward that bit of land. He reached it. He stumbled to his feet, only to be immediately beaten down again. He staggered inland, with her body thrown across one of his broad shoulders, her arms and head and golden tresses hanging down behind, one of his arms hooked across her knees, his other arm fending before him. Thus he made the shore.

There was no barrel to roll the body on, but he reflected that the jouncing which it had received upon his shoulder going through the surf had probably been sufficient to discharge all the water from the lungs.

So, quickly laying Borghild face down upon the sand, he turned her head on one side resting on her arm, forced open her mouth, and gave a pull at her tongue to clear her air passages. Then he knelt astride her legs, placed both his hands, with fingers wide-spread, about her short-ribs, and commenced a slow rhythmic pressure and release.

All this he did with machine-like precision, as though the saving of lives from drowning was an everyday routine affair with him. And yet his mind seemed strangely detached from the whole performance. While his indomitable will was driving his body to perform these acts, his mind was saying over and over again: "I love her. I love her. Oh, God--have pity on me--help me to save her! Give her back to me."

As a matter of fact, this was the first time that Scarface Boston Jimmy had ever tried to resuscitate any one. He had not even ever practiced it. But in his avid reading, and his insatiable search for knowledge, he had salted away the needful information, and now he remembered it with surprising accuracy.

After awhile he became calmer, and began to consider the situation, as he toiled.

"The books said," he ruminated, "that people have been brought to, after even three-quarters of an hour of this."

He looked instinctively at his wrist-watch, which was still running, in spite of this, its second immersion. Then he set his jaws.

"I shall not stop until I drop! Oh, my Borghild, come back to me!"

The artificial respiration continued. An ordinarily strong man ought to be able to keep this up almost indefinitely, but Jimmy had been steering the Viking ship day after day through the storm, until he had become unconscious with the strain, and then had been forced to swim for his life. He was water-logged and weak. The rhythmic motion would not keep up, as it should, by mere virtue of its own rhythm; it required the constant attention of his mind and will.

* * * * *

But his hands were becoming numb. He could no longer feel the cold girlish form beneath his out-stretched fingers. Excruciating pain shot from his elbows to his shoulders and across his back, until the numbness, creeping up his arms, began to deaden the pain. The back of his head ached dully. It was difficult to keep his eyes open. His breathing became dry and choked.

He wanted--oh, so much--to collapse beside the body of his Borghild, and sleep there forever. Time and again he shook himself awake, on the verge of dozing.

He could no longer control his fingers, and suddenly he realized that he was kneading merely with his wrists, with the ends of the bones of his lower arms. It was as though his hands had gone.

This realization horrified him and brought him to his senses for a moment. Then the numbness reached his elbow-joints, and he could no longer push at all.

Shocked, despairing, but undaunted, he leaned forward to take up the forlorn task with his elbows against her ribs; but the attempt threw him off his balance, and he fell forward prone on the sand, beside the body of the girl he loved.

He struggled to rise, but could not, and so lay still. His head swam, his senses reeled, his eyes clouded. Through the mist, he could hear an angel-voice calling:

"Yimmy! Yimmy!"

It was Borghild, welcoming him to heaven. Then he knew no more.

The next thing that he realized was that he was suddenly and completely awake. He was lying on his side in the sand. The pale, quiet face of the Viking maiden was within a few inches of his own.

The blue eyes opened, and the lips smiled a little wan smile.

"Yimmy," she breathed.

With a superhuman effort, he craned his neck forward and kissed the blue lips, whereat a slight flush mantled her white cheek. Then his head fell back again upon the sand.

Alter a time, he opened his eyes again, and looked at her, but he had no energy for any further bodily movement than this. Her eyes were closed now, but her chest was regularly rising and falling. As he gazed, however, she sighed deeply and stopped breathing.

The sight galvanized Jimmy to action. Dragging himself to his knees, he tried to wrap his nerveless arms about her. Failing this, he leaned over, caught himself with one shoulder against the sand, and covered her pale face with kisses.

Another deep sigh, and her regular breathing began again. Her eyes opened, and again she blushed.

"That'll bring the blood back to your cheeks!" exclaimed Jimmy, joyously, as he struggled to his feet.

With a supreme effort, he lifted his arms aloft and threw every ounce of his will into an attempt at wiggling his fingers.

Slowly the fingers began to move. Pins and needles shot from his shoulders to his finger-tips, as the circulation painfully resumed its course. Gradually the control of his muscles returned.

After one last spreading and stretching of every finger to its utmost, he stooped and gathered Borghild in his arms. She was still alive but very weak. It was imperative to get her somewhere at once, where she could have warmth and dry clothes and rest. Hot-water bottles for the soles of her feet, dry blankets over her, warm bouillon to drink, and all that sort of thing.

The gangster bent over and kissed her again, then looked around. The sun was still clouded. The wind had died down to a gentle breeze, but great rollers still burst upon the beach and dashed the spray across the spit of sand on which he stood.

Far off, a mile or so away, the sand-bar joined at right angles a tree-clad mainland, a vast continent evidently, which curved ever upward in the distance, until it merged with the heavens above. Toward this mainland Scarface set resolutely forth with his limp burden. But the sand was soft and shifting, and many times he was forced to lay her down and rest, ere he reached his goal.

As he neared the woods, they did not appear as inviting as they had from the distance, for they were unlike any woods which he had ever seen before. Huge ferns as tall as elms. Palm trees even taller. Between the trees rose club-moss and lichens almost as tall as the ferns, forming an impenetrable-appearing thicket.

* * * * *

Scarface felt suddenly dwarfed, like Alice in Wonderland. Even the sand at his feet bore out the illusion, for it was large and pebbly, and strewn with periwinkle-shaped shells the size of a man's head. Along the edge of the wood flew dragon-flies as large as eagles. Scarface began to wonder if he and his fair companion hadn't perhaps shrunk to midgets, after all.

The beach by the edge of the wood was high and untouched by the spray. The central sun shone hotly down. So Scarface laid Borghild tenderly on the sand, and removed her wet clothing as far as was decent. Then stripping some palm-fronds, he improvised a clothes rack and wrung out the wet garments and hung them to dry.

Borghild lay listlessly and watched him. When the wash had all been put out, he felt of the girl's hands and feet. Icy cold, in spite of the tropic warmth. Tenderly he chafed them, until she too began to recover her normal temperature. Not until then did he make an attempt to dry some of his own clothes.

Then languid and peaceful--for the pangs of hunger had not yet begun to assail them--the two lay side by side on the sand in the warmth of the life-giving central sun. They had each other, which was something, in their grief for their lost companions. They drifted weakly off to sleep, without realizing that they were doing so.

They awoke æons later, rested and ravenous.

What awakened them was a clattering of the pebbles, as though an army were on the march. The wind had completely died. The sea rocked almost imperceptibly with an oily swell. And up the beach from the sea, there advanced a far-flung skirmish-line of fish! Fish the size of horses, walking--actually walking, on pectoral and anal fins, like four legs--walking toward them from the sea, like some horrible cavalry of Neptune's lower depths.

The mouths of these fish were large, wide-open, as if grinning, lined with a serrated row of shark-like teeth.

Every once in a while, when two of this advancing horde would get too close to each other and bump together, they would snap viciously at each other, and then move apart again.

"This is no place for us!" exclaimed Scarface, leaping to his feet. "Come on!"

Stiffly the girl sprang up, and stood beside him.

"_Komm!_" said she, and held out her hand.

Together they raced up the beach to the very edge of the wood, looking for a place to enter. Meanwhile the menacing line of amphibious fish continued their relentless advance. A transition form, perhaps, of prehistoric life emerging from the sea to begin their own evolution into frog, reptile, bird, mammal, man, and even beyond.

Finally the two found a place where they could penetrate the protecting forest a little way. There they stopped, to see how far the fish would advance. But the fish did not come all the way. Instead, they lay down on the pebbles and basked in the sun.

"If they aren't going to eat us," remarked the man, "let's eat one of them."

So saying, he tore an extra-large frond from one of the palms, stripped off its leaves, and strode forth from his hiding place. The fish nearest him reared up on its front fins, standing almost as high as he did, and growled. Jimmy promptly whacked it across the snout with his stick, whereat it charged him.

He retreated slowly, belaboring the creature as he fell back. Several other fish near by, disturbed by the commotion, got clumsily to their feet and stared stupidly around. Jimmy thought of using his revolver, but decided not to waste any ammunition, unless absolutely necessary.

The front fins of the attacking fish gave way just as it reached the edge of the wood; and Jimmy, quick to sense his advantage, beat the beast violently about the head, until it lay panting on the ground.

Borghild, from within the wood, clapped her little hands with glee. She didn't know what the fight was all about; but, being a true Viking maid, she enjoyed a fight for the fight's sake.

* * * * *

Having got the huge fish at his mercy, Jimmy stepped into close quarters, drew his hunting-knife, and slit the huge creature's throat, so that the fierce head rolled severed on the ground.

Here was food, food in abundance. But for whom? Even as he arose from his gory job, the fish pack with roars and growls rushed forward, driving Jimmy back to the cover of the woods. Hungrily the cannibal amphibians fell upon their deceased brother, and tore the body to pieces. All that trouble for nothing!

Borghild, not realizing the loss, was still applauding.

This would never do! There must be some way to get a victim and keep it from being devoured. Wait; he had it! Build a fire! Fire for two purposes--to cook one fish, and to keep the other fish away. It was worth trying.

So he waited until the ravenous pack of tiger-like creatures had gorged themselves--including eating several of their number who had been slain fighting over the feast--and had returned to their nap.

Without disturbing their slumbers, he stepped cautiously out of his hiding-place and, motioning Borghild to accompany and assist him, he began gathering driftwood which lay along the high-water line near the top of the beach. The fish occasionally growled or grunted as they came too near, but did not interfere with them.

When quite a sizable pile of wood had been collected, Jimmy shredded a few sticks for kindlings, and pulled out his patent cigar-lighter. But of course the thing wouldn't work, for it was sopping wet; Jimmy sadly realized that it would never work again, for the alcohol would evaporate before the water.

What did people do under such circumstances? They twiddled sticks, didn't they? He was prepared to try this as a last resort, but wasn't there some simpler way? Eric had used a burning glass, in the story, he remembered. Too bad he hadn't one.

A watch seems to be the involuntary answer to most questions. Ask a man the day of the week, or the latest quotation of General Motors, and he will--like as not--glance automatically at his watch, before answering you. In his perplexity, Scarface glanced at his watch, and it gave him the answer!

Instantly he smiled, whipped out his knife, and pried off the crystal. But unfortunately the lens wasn't thick enough to focus the sunlight into a spot sufficiently small for his purpose.

Borghild had been watching him with interest and understanding. Now she offered a suggestion.

"Yarl Angus," she began, followed by an utterly unintelligible string of Norse words.

Her companion shook his head.

"_Yee forstaar ikka_," said he, grinning. It was his one Norse accomplishment--admitting he didn't understand.

So she snatched the watch-crystal from his hand, and made a motion as though pouring something into it. He caught on at once. Of course.

"Add water and serve," said he.

So, taking back the little piece of glass, he rushed suddenly between the dozing fish, down to the sea, where he filled his lens with water. But getting back wasn't so easy. He couldn't rush back through the pack without spilling the precious fluid, so he tried tiptoeing cautiously between them. But one of them, disturbed, snapped at his leg, and he jumped and spilled the water. He had to cut and run for the sheltering woods.

But again Borghild was helpful. This time she indicated his knife. When he gave it to her, she stripped a piece of bark from one of the trees, and with it she fashioned a rude cup. This would enable him to rush between the finny sleepers without spilling too much water.

"Say, you're a regular pal," he exclaimed.

The words meant nothing to her, but she understood the tone of voice, and so smiled.

"I've half a mind to kiss you for that," he continued.

So he did, and got his face slapped. They were getting on splendidly. The slap seemed to wipe out the affront effectively. She smiled again and handed him the cup. Once more he ventured down to the sea.

* * * * *

This time he got the water safely through. But before he lit the fire, he fashioned a second club, so that Borghild could help him "get" their dinner. For he noticed that the fish were beginning to become restless, which foreboded plenty of trouble.

The fire started readily enough in the shavings which he had made, but it required considerable care and coaxing from the two of them before it finally developed into a real blaze, for the surfaces of all the sticks and logs were soaking wet from the recent storm.

At last, however, the two of them arose from their preoccupying task well satisfied, and dusted off their hands and knees, preparatory to slaughtering their meal. Then they looked around for a likely victim.

Not until then did they notice a crunching of pebbles of which they had been only dimly conscious during all their fire-making. The fish were marching seaward again. Their dinner was leaving them!

With a howl of dismay, the two rushed down the beach, brandishing their clubs--to reach the edge just as the last amphibian slid clumsily into the ocean and mockingly disappeared from sight.

"Hell!" ejaculated Jimmy.

Borghild caught the tone, and uttered emphatically some equally questionable word in Norse. Then the two looked at each other and grinned. After the many hard knocks that Fate had handed them, the addition of one more was almost funny.

But the humor of the situation did not do away with its grimness. No food; no fresh water; nothing to do but sit down, wait, and take turns at watching until the walking fish should return for their next sun-bath.

But the question was: how often did these beasts come out to bask? It might be hourly, or it might be once in a lifetime.

Nor would the return of the fish provide any drinking water!

If they waited where they were, their food might come back to them, it is true, but they were in immediate need of fresh water. The absence of the carnivorous walking fish, while it deprived them of food, yet also permitted them the freedom of the beach. The obvious thing to do was to walk along the beach in search of a spring or brook. And, while they were about it, they might just as well walk northward, for that way lay home, though how many hundreds or thousands of miles away, the storm-tossed pair knew not.

So, gathering up the rest of their garments, they started out.

* * * * *

The sun was hot, and they were tired, and weak, and hungry, and thirsty. Very hungry, and oh so thirsty!

They came at last to a ledge of rocks projecting into the sea. In hollows of the rocks were pools of rain-water, now rapidly drying, and hence very stale. But it was water, real water, and they drank deeply of it, and were much refreshed.

In salt pools further out, they found giant sea-snails alive. So another fire was built, up by the edge of the woods. There was no danger of setting these lush woods on fire, and no harm done even if they did so.

When the fire was fairly started, Scarface leaned against a tree for a moment. Instantly he found himself in the midst of a display of fireworks such as he had never observed in Chicago either on the Fourth of July or on a ward picnic. The air around him was completely filled with sparks, so that he could not see another thing.

As he vanished from sight in a shower of sparks, Borghild shrieked.

"Yimmy!" she called, and regardless of danger to herself, she rushed through the fireworks and flung her arms around his neck.

Her onslaught forced him back against the tree, and as he bumped it, another display of pyrotechnics ensued. Borghild shrieked again and clung to him all the tighter.

The sparks did not appear to have burned either of them; and Jimmy, always an opportunist, held the girl to him, and soothed and kissed her, without any remonstrance on her part. Whatever caused the fireworks, he liked the effect.

At last, somewhat calmed and reassured, she started to draw away, bashfully and a bit reproachfully. Whereat Jimmy had an idea.

The tree behind him appeared to be the cause of the fiery phenomenon, so he kicked it violently, and was rewarded by another shower of sparks, which sent Borghild once more into his arms.

But unfortunately Borghild soon caught on, and drew away from him, with an expression which said as plainly as words, "You're doing this on purpose, you know you are."

"Of course I am," said Jimmy aloud, and grinned his disarming grin.

The girl smiled, walked demurely back, and kissed him shyly, virginally, only to be immediately seized in his arms again and devoured, this time without either excuse or resistance. She was his, all his, from then on.

It may be possible to live on "bread and cheese and kisses," but the bread and the cheese form an indispensable part of such a diet. So the two placed some of the huge sea-snails, shell and all, on the coals of the fire, and smothered them in seaweed to roast. The result, to their relief, proved delectable.

After the meal, the two sat hand in hand for a while, just gazing out to sea. The water, lapping at the rocks, made a pleasing sound. The rocks and the sea and the beach, a pleasing sight. Peace at last, and love, after all that they had gone through.

* * * * *

After a while, Jimmy got up.

"Want some more fireworks?" he asked, and shook the tree.

Again a shower of sparks. The girl clapped her hands with glee.

The tree was a gigantic club-moss. Of course! Lycopodium. Jimmy remembered having read of the use of lycopodium powder in the manufacture of old-fashioned fireworks, and how boys would often gather club-moss in the woods and shake it over candle-flames. Well, here was lycopodium powder by the ton!

Walking along the beach a little way from the fire, he spread out beneath a lycopodium tree one of Borghild's voluminous garments, which he had been carrying, and then shook down about a bushel of the brown grains. These he carted back to near the fire, and he and the girl amused themselves for quite a while by tossing handfuls into the fire and watching the results.

A fish jumped just beyond the ledge of rock. That gave Scarface an idea. So he bent a pin taken from one of Borghild's clasps, fastened it to a cord from one of her garments, baited it with a piece of sea-snail, and with care and patience, caught a fish for supper.

They stayed by the rocky ledge, fishing, cooking, eating and taking turns at watching and sleeping, until the fresh water in the rock-pools dried up. At last they determined to start north again.

They had gone only a short distance when they stopped, horrified; the way was blocked by a gigantic long-necked toad, about the size of a giraffe, hopping toward them down the beach.

Instantly they rushed to the fire and replenished it, relying on the traditional fear of animals for fire. But this prehistoric toad quite evidently had never heard of the tradition. He hopped leisurely up to the fire, and blinked at them first with one eye and then with the other.

Scarface put a protecting arm around the girl and drew her back. The beast reached one paw out and tentatively touched the blaze, then hastily snatched it back and shook it in a puzzled sort of way. Finally it reached its neck across the flames toward the pair.

It was evident that if the idea should penetrate the creature's thick skull to hop around the fire, they would be driven away from their only protection. Jimmy was just about to draw his revolver, when a better idea occurred to him. Beside them lay a pile of the lycopodium powder with which they had been playing. Seizing a double handful, the man threw it full at the beast, where it exploded.

With a frantic leap, which carried it clear over the two humans, the creature capered off down the beach to the southward at a rate of which they hadn't believed it capable.

"Let's go," shouted Scarface, and gathering up their belongings, the two hurried off in the opposite direction.

They hadn't walked more than two or three hours when they came to a wide river flowing to the sea, and completely barring their path. But that didn't dismay them so much as the fact that near them, on their shore of the river, were the remnants of a cooking fire!

It was bad enough to have to match their wits with the brute force of prehistoric monsters, but now they must contend with human intelligence as well; for this was no Viking land. The gangster searched among and around the charred embers for clews as to the type of beings who had camped there.

For a city-bred man, Scarface was developing into quite a woodsman. Necessity and a little experience can turn book-learning into real knowledge.

His search produced nothing, however, except two sizes of footprints.

"A cave man and his mate?" thought he. "But this is strange. We have seen no signs of any living creatures except mollusks, insects, fishes and toads. No mammals. No birds. Not even any reptiles. The trees are those of the coal age. I didn't know that man existed that long ago. This would certainly please the anti-evolutionists."

* * * * *

The footprints led inland up the bank of the river; so Scarface decided that he and Borghild must cross the river at any cost; but when he investigated the edge of the stream, he found the thick mud literally swarming with smooth-skinned, lizardlike, venomous-appearing creatures, which made it evident that swimming was out of the question, and that even launching a raft would be attended by grave danger.

Meanwhile the girl too was examining the footprints. Suddenly she gave a little cry of surprise and discovery. Jimmy came running. Both knelt on the ground, as she pointed to something.

Near the moccasin prints was the unmistakable mark of a thoroughly modern shoe! This was even better than Bryan's prehistoric horseshoe. And then the truth dawned on them.

"Theresa!" they exclaimed in unison.

Therefore the moccasined prints were either those of Nils and Helga, or of savages who had captured little Terry. In either event, they must follow. So, picking up their belongings, Jimmy and Borghild hurried inland along the river trail.

The path was a well-defined animal track, winding in and out through otherwise impenetrable jungle, but keeping fairly close to the river's edge at all times. Jimmy still had his automatic, with one clip of cartridges, but no more, the rest of his armament having gone down with the Viking ship. So he carried this weapon in one hand, in readiness for instant use, though he doubted if it would be of much value against the small-brained creatures of this past age.

About a mile inland the road rose and topped a small and relatively bare hill, on the summit of which they found the three persons whom they sought. So the footprints had actually been those of Theresa Ferreira, Nils Uppri and Helga Redmond. Evolution was still unchallenged by prehistoric shoeprints!

Loud and warm were the greetings as the two groups embraced. Then Helga and Nils explained to Borghild, and Terry explained to Scarface Jimmy, that the three had been washed ashore on a piece of wreckage which had served as a raft. Despairing of finding any trace of their two companions, the three had at once proceeded northward, until blocked by the river, and then had turned inland, hoping to find a ford.

They had made a fire with Eric's old burning-glass which Helga carried. They were now engaged in building a stockade, to protect them from predatory beasts, until such time as they could devise some way of crossing the river.

"Gee, Mr. Jimmy," concluded Theresa, "we must teach these guys to talk United States. I'm all fed up on listening to Svenska."

But he shook his head, and replied, "No. It will be more useful for us to learn Norse, which will come in handy if we ever get back to the plateau city."

"Gee, Mr. Jimmy," said she, "you don't think we maybe gotter spend the rest of our lives in this dump, do you?"

"Perhaps," he replied. "Who knows?"