Pic met more flint-workers; on the banks of the Seine, also along the Somme River farther to the north; but it was ever the same. He saw only small ill-hewn flakes, none of which bore signs of the Terrace Man’s wonderful craft. Poorer handiwork Pic had never seen.

With each disappointment, he grew more and more depressed. He began to look upon the art of the Terrace Man as a myth; a fanciful creation of his own brain. He became moody and irritable and wished himself back in the VÉzÈre. Then from a solitary hunter, he learned of men who lived on the banks of a river lying beyond the great Channel Valley to the north. His spirits rose and he lived in hope once more. He led his two animal friends across the Somme River, over hills and valleys to the great Boulogne-Calais ridge or heights overlooking the broad isthmus connecting Britain and France.

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.

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.

“For what are you here?” demanded the chieftain, enraged by this fearless reply.

“I came alone, as you see me, to learn how these people made their flints,” answered Pic, pointing to the old men and boys to whom he had first spoken. “I thought them Terrace Men. That is why I came.”

“Terrace Men? Bah!” snarled the monster glaring fiercely at the strange fish that lay so calmly in his net. He had expected a struggle or cringing howls for mercy. The flint-ax would mend either; but now he held his hand, confounded by the Ape Boy’s reply and manner and yet all the more enraged because of his own perplexity.

“Bah!” he roared again. “May you and your Terrace Men find rest in a lion’s stomach. We permit no strangers amongst us; therefore begone. You may thank your good fortune that we do no worse by you;” and he ground his teeth as though angered and disappointed at having shown such unusual clemency.

Pic made no response. His captors shuffled back on both sides to let him pass. As he looked into their scowling faces, he felt an overwhelming sense of loneliness; a sudden realization that he was an outcast in a strange land, in spite of the people of his own race gathered about him.

The brutal chieftain watched him narrowly, half hoping that by some word or act the Ape Boy would provoke his further wrath. In this, he was disappointed. Without a word, Pic shouldered his ax and prepared to go his way. As the great blade flashed in the sunlight, the Man of Kent started with amazement. So large and fine a flint, his eyes had never seen. He looked down at the head of his own clumsy weapon, then at the other with envious eyes.

“Hold; what have you there?” and he pointed a finger at the cause of his sudden interest.

Pic turned, surprised by this outburst. In a moment he saw its meaning.

“This is my ax,” he replied calmly; “my father’s,—made by a man of the Terraces;” and he held the weapon proudly aloft in his two hands.

The Kentish chieftain looked down again upon his own battle-ax, then at the blade of Ach Eul. His teeth were bared threateningly as he strode forward.

“You lie,” he yelled. “For now it is mine. Give it to me;” and he stretched forth an arm like one exacting tribute from a conquered foe.

Pic fell back a step and his hands closed firmly about the haft. His lips set themselves tightly together as he glared unabashed at the monster. For a moment neither moved. Those about them drew in deep breaths of wonder as they witnessed the youth’s open defiance of their leader.

“That ax,” roared the Man of Kent, withdrawing his hand and gripping his own weapon. “Can you fight with it—you an untried boy?”

“Yes.”

“And for it?” added the monster with a fiendish hyena laugh as he thrust his great head almost into the other’s face.

Pic’s eyes blazed like fire. His lips parted in a furious snarl.

“I have said the ax is mine,” he cried hoarsely. “No man lives who can take it from me,” and he made ready for the clash which he now saw was impossible to avoid.

The Kentish Men grunted noisy approval. Personal quarrels were of frequent occurrence; blood-shed a thing to amuse and while away the passing time. But this contest promised something unusual; better because of its novelty—a giant versus a dwarf. Their sympathies, or rather their brutal preference, favored the smaller contestant who faced such odds with so little concern for his own skin. They had no love for their chief. By the power of his arm alone had he attained a commanding position over them. All had felt the weight of his hand and feared his gigantic strength. That a stranger—a mere lad—dared try conclusions with him, was enough to arouse their interest to the highest pitch. They admired, they wondered; but the Ape Boy was clearly overmatched and that he would put up a good fight before having his skull cracked was about the most that could be expected. They took comfortable positions in a semi-circle about the contestants with backs to the terrace like an audience before a stage. Without a thought of interfering, they squatted down to enjoy the entertainment now being served before them.

The Man of Kent leered upon the Ape Boy with such tenderness as a cat bestows upon a mouse caught in the toils. He took fiendish relish in prolonging his victim’s agony before applying the finishing touch. Low murmurs arose. The spectators were growing impatient of his inaction. The Man of Kent turned savagely upon them.

“Be quiet,” he snarled. “Would you have me treat as a man one who cannot properly grip his ax because of his soft baby hands?”

Pic heard the insult and the hot blood surged into his face. With a bowl of fury, he sprang nimbly forward and dealt the Man of Kent a resounding whack across the chest with the flat of his ax.

His audience growled noisy approval and wonder, too, for a blow with the flat blade was a warrior’s expression of deepest scorn for an unworthy foe. They craned their heads eagerly forward and awaited Pic’s next move with breathless interest. The chieftain roared with pain and surprised rage. Lurching forward with a labored jump, he swung back and his blade whizzed through the air above the other’s head. As Pic dodged, he shifted the hold on his weapon from right to left and struck his adversary edge-on over the right shoulder before he could recover himself.

Maddened by this wound and infuriated by the applause which greeted this second display of skill, the Man of Kent flew into a rage terrible to see. Pic retreated a step, dismayed by his foe’s beast-like fury and ability to withstand punishment. Perhaps the tide of battle might have turned against him at that moment had not a great uproar arisen among the spectators and drawn the attention of both combatants.

On the terrace above them loomed a monster head armed with long curling tusks. Beside it stood another and smaller head, bearing a long sharp-pointed horn on its lowered snout. This pair on the terrace balcony comprised a second audience of silent and amazed observers.

A great commotion ensued. Believing themselves attacked, the Men of Kent sprang to their feet and began backing down the slope to the river. With a parting howl of rage their chieftain made off in the same direction while the Mammoth and Rhinoceros continued staring and wondering what it all meant. Finding himself alone Pic mounted the terrace and joined his friends who as yet had spoken no word nor moved a muscle.

“When did you come?” he asked. “I had no idea that you were watching us.”

“So that is how you Trog-men fight,” said the Rhinoceros with a twinkle of his small eyes. “We saw you hit the big one twice. He made a queer noise. Was he angry?”

“He was,” Pic replied; “very angry; and so big and strong I could not hurt him although I struck him my hardest blow. He might have beaten me, had not you and Hairi frightened him away.”

Wulli listened with the greatest interest. He had enjoyed watching the fight although not fully understanding the fine points involved in an encounter between two human beings, where stones fastened to wooden sticks were the sole weapons employed. However he had determined in his own mind that the Ape Boy excelled at this peculiar style and he was therefore duly impressed.

“We might follow them—we three. They would fly before us like a flock of crows.”

“No,” said Pic. “We have no quarrel with them. I would rather see them our good friends.”

“Friends? Oo-wee! Hear that!” Wulli replied as his sharp ears caught the sound of a commotion in the valley below. The three looked down.

In the distance, the Man of Kent stood at the head of his followers, waving his ax aloft and howling defiance at the Ape Boy and his companions. His first astonishment, as he witnessed such an unheard-of intimacy, had given place to furious rage against all three. Not daring to attack such a formidable combination,—Man, Mammoth and Rhinoceros—he proceeded to relieve his injured feelings from a safe distance, with threats and insults, none of which the trio could hear or understand.

“He is a fiend,” thought Pic. “I know that he will never forgive me. War it is from now on.”

The truth of this remark soon became apparent. The Kentish Cave Men grew more hostile each day. Inflamed with a desire for revenge, their fierce leader urged his followers on and the trio found themselves the center of a systematic and relentless persecution. Had it not been for Pic’s constant foresight and vigilance, none of the trio could have escaped destruction. Time and time again, he warned his friends away from hills and crags where enemies lay hidden, awaiting their chance to overwhelm the party with showers of stones and darts. He led them safely clear of traps set near clumps of trees and watercourses where the tread of a heavy foot on vine or stick would have sent a huge log or stone crashing down. In their turn the Men of Kent redoubled their efforts, imbued with a two-fold purpose. The Mammoth and Rhinoceros were not merely objects of their bitter resentment, but also a great waste of fresh meat in their living state; so they persisted with every form of attack their minds could devise; and each time, such attempts were thwarted by the trio’s combined might and resourcefulness.

Pic and his friends chafed restlessly under the constantly increasing pressure to which they were subjected. When men or animals become fully aware that they are being persistently hunted, they grow excessively cautious and timid.

“Would that we could leave here,” said the Mammoth. “These Trog-men give us little time to seek food and rest.”

“Would that they could leave us in peace,” sniffed the aggrieved Wulli. “Why should we be so ill-treated? They will not stand and fight. What can we do?”

“The fault is mine,” Pic said bitterly. “But for me, they would trouble you and Hairi no more”; which was far from true, considering that the Men of Kent looked upon his friends as desirable articles of food. “Why should we stay here and be hunted to death? I have seen all that there is to be seen of these flint-workers. I have found no Terrace Man——”

“Nor treasure,” the Mammoth interrupted.

“Not even a cave,” added Wulli.

The upshot of the matter was that all three agreed to leave the country. The glacial summer was nearing its close and the return journey, if made leisurely, would bring them none too soon to winter quarters in the VÉzÈre. So they made haste to depart from a region, once all sunshine and promise, but now become cheerless and full of peril. The brief period of happiness following their arrival was forgotten in the indignities now thrust upon them. The country had welcomed them; by its inhabitants were they now expelled. They turned their backs upon the lowlands of the great London Basin with no fond memories of its former hospitality. The river and terraces sank from sight behind the retiring pilgrims and the Valley of the Thames saw them no more.

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