“Odd creatures these Trog-folk,” he whispered. “See how he sits on his hind legs and uses the front ones—just like a squirrel. What can he be doing?”
“Cracking rocks,” Wulli replied. “All Trog-men do the same thing—I know not why.”
“Indeed; I never noticed what they were doing,” said the Mammoth and he continued to watch the scene before him with the greatest interest. Apparently the Cave Man had espied neither him nor the Rhinoceros,—the two eavesdroppers peering over the terrace behind him. Rock-cracking claimed his sole and undivided attention. The hammer-stone in his right hand rose and fell with unbroken regularity upon the flint-flake held in his left.
Wulli quickly tired of this monotonous performance; but with every blow, the Mammoth’s eyes and mouth opened wider and wider.
“What does it mean?” he exclaimed. “So unusual. There must be something in rocks of which we have not yet learned.”
“Perhaps he eats them,” grunted the Rhinoceros. “If so he can have my share. They break teeth and taste of nothing. I prefer grass.”
“Look,” Hairi whispered in an awed voice. The Cave Man had ceased pounding the flint he held and was examining it with the greatest care, first on one side then on the other, meanwhile running his thumb along its ragged edges. Something about it must have displeased him, for with a grunt he tossed the flake over his left shoulder, then selected another from a small pile before him. The rejected flint, hurled so unceremoniously over the ledge, struck the Mammoth’s trunk. Hairi emitted a muffled squeal which instantly betrayed his presence.
The Cave Man sprang quickly to his feet. For an instant, he glared fiercely at the two eavesdroppers, then snatching up a jagged rock, bounded nimbly to the terrace edge.
