“Yes, with the little tool. Do you know how it is done?”
“Of course, I do,” was the answer. “My father says that I am to become a weapon maker, and so he has taught me how to do the work. Some day I will do as well as he, so he says.”
“Um-m!” The Muskman’s eyes sparkled with a strange light. He had failed miserably and was a fugitive from Pic’s wrath, but now—the possibilities were unlimited. He might escape and succeed both.
“Wonderful boy,” he muttered. “And so you can make the fine blades with the little finishing tool. How surprising. And now I am about to tell you something. If you were not as good a friend of mine as I am yours, I could not bring myself to say it.”
“Agh, but I am your good friend,” Kutnar answered quickly. “You should tell me everything.”
“And you will not repeat what I say?” Gonch asked. “Your father and I must be very careful. Some one might hear of it.”
“Hear of what?” the boy inquired, now beside himself with curiosity. “I will be silent. Tell me.”
Gonch glanced about him. “Sh!” he said, lowering his voice and assuming an air of deep mystery. “We southrons have a new and better way of finishing the flints.”
“A better way?” the boy stared. “Impossible.”
“No, it is true,” Gonch declared impressively. “Your father agrees with me that our method is the best. I am to get it and bring it to him.”