and supported him down the aisle into the crowd. Joe remained where
he had fallen. His seconds carried him into his corner and placed
him on the stool. Men began climbing into the ring, curious to see,
but were roughly shoved out by the policemen, who were already
there.
Genevieve looked on from her peep-hole. She was not greatly
perturbed. Her lover had been knocked out. In so far as
disappointment was his, she shared it with him; but that was all.
She even felt glad in a way. The Game had played him false, and he
was more surely hers. She had heard of knockouts from him. It
often took men some time to recover from the effects. It was not
till she heard the seconds asking for the doctor that she felt
really worried.
They passed his limp body through the ropes to the stage, and it
disappeared beyond the limits of her peep-hole. Then the door of
her dressing-room was thrust open and a number of men came in. They
were carrying Joe. He was laid down on the dusty floor, his head
resting on the knee of one of the seconds. No one seemed surprised
by her presence. She came over and knelt beside him. His eyes were
closed, his lips slightly parted. His wet hair was plastered in
straight locks about his face. She lifted one of his hands. It was
very heavy, and the lifelessness of it shocked her. She looked
THE GAME
29
suddenly at the faces of the seconds and of the men about her. They
seemed frightened, all save one, and he was cursing, in a low voice,
horribly. She looked up and saw Silverstein standing beside her.
He, too, seemed frightened. He rested a kindly hand on her
shoulder, tightening the fingers with a sympathetic pressure.
This sympathy frightened her. She began to feel dazed. There was a
bustle as somebody entered the room. The person came forward,
proclaiming irritably: “Get out! Get out! You’ve got to clear the
room!”
A number of men silently obeyed.
“Who are you?” he abruptly demanded of Genevieve. “A girl, as I’m
alive!”
“That’s all right, she’s his girl,” spoke up a young fellow she
recognized as her guide.
“And you?” the other man blurted explosively at Silverstein.
“I’m vit her,” he answered truculently.
“She works for him,” explained the young fellow. “It’s all right, I
tell you.”
The newcomer grunted and knelt down. He passed a hand over the damp
head, grunted again, and arose to his feet.
“This is no case for me,” he said. “Send for the ambulance.”
Then the thing became a dream to Genevieve. Maybe she had fainted,
she did not know, but for what other reason should Silverstein have
his arm around her supporting her? All the faces seemed blurred and
unreal. Fragments of a discussion came to her ears. The young
fellow who had been her guide was saying something about reporters.
“You vill get your name in der papers,” she could hear Silverstein
saying to her, as from a great distance; and she knew she was
shaking her head in refusal.
There was an eruption of new faces, and she saw Joe carried out on a
canvas stretcher. Silverstein was buttoning the long overcoat and
drawing the collar about her face. She felt the night air on her
cheek, and looking up saw the clear, cold stars. She jammed into a
seat. Silverstein was beside her. Joe was there, too, still on his
stretcher, with blankets over his naked body; and there was a man in
blue uniform who spoke kindly to her, though she did not know what
he said. Horses’ hoofs were clattering, and she was lurching
somewhere through the night.
Next, light and voices, and a smell of iodoform. This must be the
receiving hospital, she thought, this the operating table, those the
doctors. They were examining Joe. One of them, a dark-eyed, dark-
bearded, foreign-looking man, rose up from bending over the table.
“Never saw anything like it,” he was saying to another man. “The
whole back of the skull.”
THE GAME
30
Her lips were hot and dry, and there was an intolerable ache in her
throat. But why didn’t she cry? She ought to cry; she felt it
incumbent upon her. There was Lottie (there had been another change
in the dream), across the little narrow cot from her, and she was
crying. Somebody was saying something about the coma of death. It
was not the foreign-looking doctor, but somebody else. It did not
matter who it was. What time was it? As if in answer, she saw the
faint white light of dawn on the windows.
“I was going to be married to-day,” she said to Lottie.
And from across the cot his sister wailed, “Don’t, don’t!” and,
covering her face, sobbed afresh.
This, then, was the end of it all–of the carpets, and furniture,
and the little rented house; of the meetings and walking out, the
thrilling nights of starshine, the deliciousness of surrender, the
loving and the being loved. She was stunned by the awful facts of
this Game she did not understand–the grip it laid on men’s souls,
its irony and faithlessness, its risks and hazards and fierce
insurgences of the blood, making woman pitiful, not the be-all and
end-all of man, but his toy and his pastime; to woman his mothering
and caretaking, his moods and his moments, but to the Game his days
and nights of striving, the tribute of his head and hand, his most
patient toil and wildest effort, all the strain and the stress of
his being–to the Game, his heart’s desire.
Silverstein was helping her to her feet. She obeyed blindly, the
daze of the dream still on her. His hand grasped her arm and he was
turning her toward the door.
“Oh, why don’t you kiss him?” Lottie cried out, her dark eyes
mournful and passionate.
Genevieve stooped obediently over the quiet clay and pressed her
lips to the lips yet warm. The door opened and she passed into
another room. There stood Mrs. Silverstein, with angry eyes that
snapped vindictively at sight of her boy’s clothes.
Silverstein looked beseechingly at his spouse, but she burst forth
savagely:-
“Vot did I tell you, eh? Vot did I tell you? You vood haf a
bruiser for your steady! An’ now your name vill be in all der
papers! At a prize fight–vit boy’s clothes on! You liddle
strumpet! You hussy! You–”
But a flood of tears welled into her eyes and voice, and with her
fat arms outstretched, ungainly, ludicrous, holy with motherhood,
she tottered over to the quiet girl and folded her to her breast.
She muttered gasping, inarticulate love-words, rocking slowly to and
fro the while, and patting Genevieve’s shoulder with her ponderous
hand.
THE GAME
31
A RELIC OF THE PLIOCENE
1
A RELIC OF THE
PLIOCENE
By Jack London
A RELIC OF THE PLIOCENE
2
Editor’s Notes by Blake Linton Wilfong (www.wondersmith.com)
Mammoths were huge, hairy, elephant-like mammals that inhabited cold regions of Earth
from 4 million to 10,000 years ago. These beasts were ideally suited for the Ice Age, and cave
paintings from that period depict prehistoric men hunting them for food. Today, the fossil
remains of mammoths are commonplace in Alaska, often unearthed as prospectors pan gravel for
gold. Well preserved frozen bodies of mammoths have also been found in Siberia.
Jack London based his story “A Relic of the Pliocene”, published in 1901, upon these and
other findings of the science of paleontology. But as is common in science fiction, he (or at least
his character Thomas Stevens) exaggerated the facts slightly to make the story more exciting.
The American mammoth (Mammuthus imperator), the largest known species, reached a height
of “only” 14 feet.
I have illustrated “A Relic of the Pliocene” with artists’ conceptions of mammoths. These,
along with Jack London’s own colorful characterizations and sparkling humor, round out this
amusing yarn of modern man pitted against prehistoric monster.
A RELIC OF THE PLIOCENE
I wash my hands of him at the start. I cannot father his tales,
nor will I be responsible for them. I make these preliminary
reservations, observe, to guard my own integrity. I possess a
certain definite position in a small way, also a wife; and for
the good name of the community that honors my existence
with its approval, and for the sake of her posterity and mine, I
cannot take the chances I once did, nor foster probabilities
with the careless improvidence of youth. So, I repeat, I wash
my hands of him, this Nimrod, this mighty hunter, this
homely, blue-eyed, freckle-faced Thomas Stevens.
Having been honest to myself, and to whatever prospective
olive branches my wife may be pleased to tender me, I can now afford to be generous. I shall not
criticize the tales Thomas Stevens told me, and, further, I shall withhold judgment. If asked why,