Near Boulogne, the trio descended from the heights into the valley, across which man and beast might travel dry shod; no small convenience, for none knew of boats or rafts or how logs might be used as transports across the water. But the great valley was dry so the Ape Boy and his companions passed over it with no inconvenience save from the choking chalk-dust stirred up by their own feet. A day’s journey with a week more added, brought them first into Britain, then through the Kentish Downs to the London Basin. Before them, in the distance, flowed the Thames River, winding its way leisurely towards the North Sea from the direction of the setting sun. Such a stream were scarcely broad or swift enough to bar the trio’s northward march. A swim to the opposite bank meant no more than a bit of exercise calculated to make the red blood of a Mammoth and Rhinoceros flow fast. Strangely enough neither one made any effort to cross the river, both merely contenting themselves with strolling along the valley’s southern border. Their behavior was suddenly become care-free and without purpose. The cool breezes sweeping down from the Scottish glaciers and North Sea, gave the air that life and snap which Hairi and Wulli considered indispensable to their bodily comfort. These hardy wanderers could make themselves at home in any country whose food-supply and climate accorded with their standards. To them, Kent seemed a land of charm, so now they slowed their pace and proceeded to enjoy themselves.
Pic too found much to occupy his mind. The stepped banks or terraces of the Thames reminded him of those he had seen lining both sides of the Somme; the low, middle and high terraces—three successive water levels, beginning with the highest at a time when the river was first carving its way through the valley. And there were places where flint-workers gathered during the spring and summer months; so when his companions stopped to graze, he shouldered his ax and walked along the slopes keeping a sharp lookout for those whom he wished most to see. He was feeling a wee bit homesick and hungry too, for a sight of human faces,—not because he felt any friendly feeling for his own kind, he assured himself; but only from Terrace Men could he learn aught of how blades, such as the one he bore, were so finely made. He had not gone far when he observed a group of flint-workers on the bank below him; so down he went to make their closer acquaintance.
They squatted on the slope with only their heads visible and faces turned towards the river. As Pic drew nearer, their shoulders and bodies came into view. He recognized in them, beings like himself—the race of Moustier. His heart sank. His mind had pictured the Terrace Man as something different. His ax,—the blade of Ach Eul—represented an ideal—a perfection of flint-working art. The artisan must be constituted of more than common clay. Did the genius of the Terraces stalk abroad in the guise of such humble folk? He hoped; but something within him, foretold bitter disappointment.
The Men of Kent were so busy with their flint-making that they paid little attention to the approaching figure, doubtless considering it one of their own number. Not until Pic stood amongst them did they realize that he was a stranger. All stopped work and eyed him with disfavor. Pic gazed boldly about him. He saw none but old men and boys. “Where are your warriors?” he demanded.
A youth pointed eastward.
“Hunting?” Pic asked curiously; then muttered to himself: “Of course; some must find food while the others work.”
The youth nodded civilly enough. His courtesy was due to a glimpse of the Ape Boy’s wonderful ax.
“Have no fear; I come as a friend,” said Pic as he observed the other’s concerned expression. “Are you Men of the Terraces?”
The youth shook his head: “No; we are cave-folk. We live among the hills. Only in the warm season, do we come here.”
Pic sighed, took a deep breath and turned his attention to the work in which the group was engaged. He almost dreaded to look down and see what he most feared.