‘That is clever,’ said Puck, leaning over. ‘How truly you shape it!’
‘Yes, but what does The Beast care for a brittle flint tip? Bah!’ The man flicked something contemptuously over his shoulder. It fell between Dan and Una—a beautiful dark-blue flint arrow-head still hot from the maker’s hand.
The man reached for another stone, and worked away like a thrush with a snail-shell.
‘Flint work is fool’s work,’ he said at last. ‘One does it because one always did it, but when it comes to dealing with The Beast—no good!’ He shook his shaggy head.
‘The Beast was dealt with long ago. He has gone,’ said Puck.
‘He’ll be back at lambing-time. I know him.’ He chipped very carefully, and the flints squeaked.
‘Not he. Children can lie out on the Chalk now all day through and go home safe.’
‘Can they? Well, call The Beast by his True Name, and I’ll believe it,’ the man replied.
‘Surely!’ Puck leaped to his feet, curved his hands round his mouth and shouted: “Wolf! Wolf!”
Norton’s Pit threw back the echo from its dry sides—‘Wuff! Wuff!’ like Young Jim’s bark.