Before each artisan was a small pile of flint-lumps. Thin chips covered the ground between each pair of feet; small, roughly-fractured flakes lay together on one side. Pic dropped on one knee and examined the flakes.
“Are these your best work?” he asked at last in a voice that trembled. He did not even raise his eyes as one of the men answered: “Yes, they are the best.”
“Enough;” he still gazed dreamily at the flakes,—small, shapeless things—but his thoughts were elsewhere. “I have failed,” he said bitterly. “These would shame a child. The Terrace Man is not here.”
As he arose to his feet, thinking, striving to gather courage for fresh hopes, dark figures loomed about him on all sides as though sprung from the earth. With a startled exclamation, he raised his ax and squared back, determined to sell his life dearly. But as he glanced behind him, he saw how vain would be his efforts. A dozen flint-axes were held ready to strike him down. One step forward or backward and the blades would crush his skull.
His muscles relaxed. He lowered his weapon. His captors in turn lowered theirs and crowded more closely about him. In a moment Pic had recovered from his surprise and was boldly returning the fierce looks directed upon him from all sides. Then one of his captors, who appeared to be the leader, a giant in bulk and strength, stepped forward and eyed Pic so threateningly that the latter shrank back with half-raised ax.
A human race more brutal the Ape Boy had never beheld. Its overhanging brows, sloping forehead and projecting muzzle were so exaggerated that the entire head resembled that of a huge monkey. This likeness was increased by the monster’s broad, flat nose which was crushed in and marred by a ragged scar extending far into one cheek. The thick body, crooked limbs and hairy skin were even more animal-like than the hideous head above them.
Pic took in all of these details at a glance and found them far from reassuring. Nor—judging by his scowling face—was the Man of Kent improved in temper at sight of the youth before him.
“Who are you?” he growled in a voice that sounded like the mouthing of a famished wolf. Pic’s lips tightened as he returned the monster’s piercing stare.
“A man.” He was about to add the words: “like yourself;” but withheld them as inappropriate.