“Warm day, this. Soon we will all have to be off for the cool country.”
But Pic made no reply, for by this time, he was back, squatting among his flint-flakes and again absorbed in his work. For a time his two friends looked wonderingly on; then becoming impatient, they fidgeted and stamped and grumbled and made all sorts of disagreeable remarks, none of which did Pic have eyes or ears for. Finally they went off in a huff leaving Pic squatting alone and unmindful of their departure.
All day he toiled and it was only when the shades of night began to settle over him that he rose to his feet and kicked the knots out of his cramped limbs. His night was spent in the grotto of Moustier but with the first morning light, he was up and ready to resume his work. The Mammoth and Rhinoceros and the Cave-men of Ferrassie were temporarily set aside.
“Flints first; my friends second,” he determined for the moment and therewith sought a secluded nook among the loftiest and most inaccessible crags where he could perform his self-allotted task without interference from friend or foe.
It was not long before his efforts began to produce results. Although at first, his use of the bone tool was slow and laborious, he was patient and eager to learn and his technique quickly improved. He spoiled some pieces and only half-succeeded with others but practice makes perfect and gradually he attained proficiency in the master craft, perhaps even excelled the Terrace flint-worker in one particular at least—diversity of form. He did not confine his efforts to producing ax-blades alone but made each flake into whatever tool its shape suggested. Thin elongate pieces he fashioned into points for darts; irregular flakes of no particular form with curved edges, made excellent tools for scraping and dressing hides; large fragments with one long keen edge served for skinning-blades, and so on.
For a week or more, he pursued his vocation in total solitude until at last it seemed to him that the time was near at hand to prove the value of his discovery in the eyes of men and at the same time determine the measure of his success in putting it to a practical test.
“The men of the Rock-shelter shall judge its merits,” he determined. “Unless their eyes are opened, I will renounce the new art of flint-making forever.”
And so one morning, he selected three of his newly made flints—his best and no two alike—and wrapped them in a packet of rabbit skin. This done, he concealed his remaining flints together with the bone finishing tool, swept away all traces of his work and was soon on his way down the valley towards the Rock-shelter of Ferrassie.