“Who made them?” demanded one of the Cave-men. “Would that all of us had flints like these.”
Pic glowed with pleasure as he heard these words. They gave him courage to unburden his heart and speak of what was in his mind. “I made them,” he said and then as all stared in wonder and held their peace, he went on:
“For many days have I sought the lost art of retouching hammered flints. We men have grown careless with our flint-working. We have become sluggish. We sit back to rot in caves or starve, simply for the lack of fitting tools and weapons to kill and dress our food. I know now how they may be made. Those”—he pointed to the three pieces in the chieftain’s hands—“are my first—the new patterns chipped straight and keen—on both sides.”
Pic’s hearers were now rapidly recovering from their first astonishment. By this time, they were ready to believe anything of this remarkable youth. Had he produced a pair of wings and flown away, they would have been surprised no doubt; but one and all would have accepted it as a matter of course.
“If you made these, you can make more,” suggested one of the Cave-men.
“Arrah; he can thus serve us even better than by taking his part in the hunt!” said another.
Pic fairly beamed. His first efforts to revive the lost art were tested and adjudged an unqualified success. A thought of the future flashed through his mind.
“To make blades like these, I will need many flint lumps,” he said. “If you gather them I will have more time for my work.”
The burly chieftain nodded approval.
“My men will supply them,” he generously agreed. “The stone will be forthcoming if you make the tools.”