“A rock,” sneered the Mammoth; then as the Ape Boy shrank from him offended, he said in less scornful tones: “Yes, it is quite remarkable; but neither Wulli nor I have use for such things. Come; let us go.”
“Where?” Pic had not once taken his eyes off of the great flint.
“North. Who knows but that the cave and its treasure might not be there?”
“You will see Trog-men too.” Wulli added. “I know because I have seen them. They spend most of their time cracking rocks along the river banks.”
“Is it so?” Pic glanced tenderly at the great blade and pondered. Perhaps these northern flint-workers knew the secret of double-flaking and fine chipping like that shown in his newly-discovered prize. Such knowledge were well worth the seeking. His skill in making turtle-backs—flaked round on one surface; flat and smooth on the other—now seemed to him but feeble and wasted effort. As for the gem he held, it was the tiny chipping along the margins which brought them to such keen straight edges, that aroused his greatest interest and speculation. The tiny chipping! That was the substance of the whole matter. To learn how such work was done, was a possibility too strong to resist.
“I will go with you;” this with the air of one whose determination is made, once and for all. “One who lives with beasts must cease to be a man,” he said to himself. “It is broken—the last tie which bound me to men.” He glanced at the half-buried corpse; then realizing that his task was uncompleted, he re-entered the grotto and once more began piling the dirt over the body. When the grave was half-filled he stopped.
“I have stolen my father’s last flint. He shall have mine instead;” and, forthwith, his own ax lay beside the dead man.
“Why do you do that?” inquired the Mammoth who had been quick to see.
“He might need it,” Pic answered. “At least his shadow might need it.”