“Ugh,” was all he said.
Pic rolled back a fold of the packet, meanwhile watching the other closely from the corners of his eyes. A large flint blade was disclosed—a skinning knife. In form and finish, it was a gem.
The chieftain lost his far-away look. He began to fidget. His mouth watered as he observed that which lay so temptingly within his reach. He made a supreme effort to conceal his true feelings; but flesh and blood could not—would not—stand the strain. He gasped, turned quickly and pointed to the skinning-blade.
“That flint you hold—Agh! Let me see it.”
Pic’s blood surged through his veins like molten steel. With difficulty, he stilled the exultation raging within him and preserved his appearance of outward calm. Without a word, he handed the flint to his companion who seized it eagerly and ran his thumb along one edge.
“It is indeed a treasure,” he exclaimed. “Never have I seen the like. Would you part with it?”
To conceal his bubbling joy, Pic now drew a long face.
“Part with it?” he exclaimed in tones of well-feigned astonishment. “Then I would have nothing—unless you chose to give me something in return.”
The chieftain chuckled inwardly at this shrewd suggestion. “My share of the buck, how would that suit you? I would give even that for such a flint as this. What say you? A haunch of venison? You have been ill. The meat will make you strong.”
But Pic merely shook his head.