Pic continued gazing wistfully at the sky. He was thinking of former days; of his search for the Terrace Man which had availed him nothing; of the treasure which after repeated failure, he had now so unexpectedly discovered. The latter pertained to that which he sought above all things—a knowledge of the art whereby men formerly retouched their hammered flakes. But the flints themselves taught him nothing. The knowledge which had seemed almost within his grasp, had now slipped as it were, through his fingers, leaving him as far from his goal as ever. He picked up one of the blades with his left hand.

“This work was not done entirely with the hammer-stone” he reflected bitterly. “Some other means was used to strike off these tiny chips. What it was, I would give my life to know.”

He was about to lay the flint down with its fellows when his eyes fell upon the piece of bone lying upon the rock where he had placed it. Strange, that such a trifling object should intrude itself upon him at this moment. He picked it up and examined it.

The bone was polished and notched on one end. It was strangely hard and heavy. The notched end in particular seemed most peculiar. Pic regarded it curiously.

“That mark was not made by a lion’s tooth,” he reasoned. “The bone has been neither roughly scratched nor chewed, nor would the brute’s tongue have smoothed it down so nicely.”

His thoughts were now centered upon the bone fragment. He had forgotten the flints entirely.

The bone was in his right hand; the blade which he had been examining, still remained in his left. More by accident than design, he set the notched end of the bone against one edge of the flint and pressed strongly downward. A tiny chip flew off. More astounding things may have happened in the world but not to the Ape Boy of Moustier. A look of bewilderment spread over his face. He pressed again with the same result.

A dim ray rapidly growing broader and brighter, diffused its light through the Ape Boy’s brain. The significance of his discovery cannot be overestimated, simple though it seems. The secret of the Terrace Men was revealed—the art of retouching hammered flints. Pic had reached his goal at last simply because of a piece of bone found buried with the treasure. The treasure was in reality the bone itself—the finishing tool of the Terrace flint-worker wherewith the final chipping operation was accomplished. With it, he pressed—not hammered—off the smaller chips and finished the edges straight and keen. No danger of fracturing even the longest and thinnest blade by this method. The tiny flakes flew as readily under pressure of the bone tool as did the larger ones beneath the blows of the hammer-stone.

It was simple enough when one knew how to do it. Pic wondered why he had not thought of it before. The bone tool was the key to the whole art. His cup of joy so nearly empty, was now filled to overflowing. He beamed; he smiled until his mouth threatened to split from ear to ear. Never was a man or woman’s happiness more complete. In his ecstasy, the hard rock beneath him felt like a seat among the clouds.

And now with his discovery of the lost art, came a desire to put that art to a practical test. Knowledge meant power if used to good purpose. Pic determined to adapt the much he had learned to his own ends.

His first need was raw material on which to work. This meant a trip to the valley in search of flint. Before venturing forth, he gathered up the treasure and replaced it within the cavity where he had found it—all but the bone tool and a single blade. He then set the stone back in place and covered it with loose dirt so that it was effectually concealed. The one flint he retained, was intended to replace the blade of Ach Eul so recently broken over the hyena’s head. He recovered his discarded ax-haft and in a jiffy, it was fitted with a new head as large and keen as the one it had originally borne.

Thus re-armed, he descended into the valley and sought the river gravels for raw flint-lumps—essentials in implement manufacture. After securing all that he could conveniently carry, he crossed the meadows and chose a secluded spot among the loose boulders which lay thickly strewn along the base of the towering cliff-walls. Here, without danger of being interrupted he devoted himself to the practical application of his newly discovered flint-working art.

First he broke up the lumps he had gathered with a hammer-stone in the usual way. This in itself was an operation which called for a considerable degree of skill. When struck in the right place and with just the proper force, the wax-like sheets or blanks were detached from the flint-mass with remarkable smoothness and precision. In the performance of this operation, Pic displayed an adeptness born of long experience. Once the blanks were hewn, then came the second step in flint-making when the blanks were roughed out to the desired shapes and partly edged. This work was accomplished by light taps of the hammer-stone. Up to this point the work was done according to the ordinary method of the skilled Mousterian artisan.

Pic drew a long deep breath. All was ready for the third and final stage—retouching—such as no Mousterian had ever attempted. His fingers trembled as he put aside his hammer-stone and essayed his first trial of the new art.

The bone tool now came into play. With it, Pic pressed off the last tiny chips along the point and edges of the flint-flake. By this time he had become so engrossed in his work that he was entirely oblivious to everything else. A clammy snake-like object suddenly glided over his left shoulder and as he sprang to his feet and faced about with an astonished yell, there stood the Mammoth and Rhinoceros so close that either one could have trod upon him with a single forward step.

“Ugh!” he muttered weakly as he recognized his friends. “Why did you so startle me? You should have given warning.”

To this, the Mammoth paid scant attention. “What were you doing there?” he asked. “Not the rock-cracking part but that which you do with the little stick. I never saw you do the like before.”

“Stick? Agh, you mean the bone tool.” Pic held it up so that both could see. “This is the Terrace Man’s secret, his method of retouching hammered flakes. I found it high upon a mountain, in a cave, beneath a stone in the floor——”

“The treasure!” echoed both animals.

“Aye, the treasure. I found it only this morning in my cave upon the Rock.”

The Mammoth who was with difficulty restraining his rising excitement at this unexpected news, looked quickly this way and that. “What? Where?” he eagerly demanded.

“Here right in front of your nose,” said Pic. “This piece of bone. There were flints too; but this bone is the treasure.”

Hairi seized it between the two lips of his trunk-tip and held it before his eyes for examination. “A bone?” he repeated in tones of overwhelming disappointment. His jaw dropped. His ears hung limp.

“I said it was probably a bone,” the Rhinoceros now broke in with an I-told-you-so air. “Did it have any meat on it?”

“No it was just as you see it,” Pic replied. “Remarkable is it not?”

Hairi regarded it with a look of intense disgust. Even Wulli began to share his lack of enthusiasm.

“Treasure, indeed,” the Mammoth sniffed.

“It might as well have been a piece of rotten wood,” the Rhinoceros added.

“You do not understand,” said Pic. “This bone is a tool. A man buried it. He used it to retouch his flints. See; he pressed off the tiny chips instead of hammering them.” He illustrated his remarks by applying one end of the bone to a flake; a most interesting explanation to all present except his two friends. Wulli stared with his blankest expression while the Mammoth stretched his neck and yawned:

“Warm day, this. Soon we will all have to be off for the cool country.”

But Pic made no reply, for by this time, he was back, squatting among his flint-flakes and again absorbed in his work. For a time his two friends looked wonderingly on; then becoming impatient, they fidgeted and stamped and grumbled and made all sorts of disagreeable remarks, none of which did Pic have eyes or ears for. Finally they went off in a huff leaving Pic squatting alone and unmindful of their departure.

All day he toiled and it was only when the shades of night began to settle over him that he rose to his feet and kicked the knots out of his cramped limbs. His night was spent in the grotto of Moustier but with the first morning light, he was up and ready to resume his work. The Mammoth and Rhinoceros and the Cave-men of Ferrassie were temporarily set aside.

“Flints first; my friends second,” he determined for the moment and therewith sought a secluded nook among the loftiest and most inaccessible crags where he could perform his self-allotted task without interference from friend or foe.

It was not long before his efforts began to produce results. Although at first, his use of the bone tool was slow and laborious, he was patient and eager to learn and his technique quickly improved. He spoiled some pieces and only half-succeeded with others but practice makes perfect and gradually he attained proficiency in the master craft, perhaps even excelled the Terrace flint-worker in one particular at least—diversity of form. He did not confine his efforts to producing ax-blades alone but made each flake into whatever tool its shape suggested. Thin elongate pieces he fashioned into points for darts; irregular flakes of no particular form with curved edges, made excellent tools for scraping and dressing hides; large fragments with one long keen edge served for skinning-blades, and so on.

For a week or more, he pursued his vocation in total solitude until at last it seemed to him that the time was near at hand to prove the value of his discovery in the eyes of men and at the same time determine the measure of his success in putting it to a practical test.

“The men of the Rock-shelter shall judge its merits,” he determined. “Unless their eyes are opened, I will renounce the new art of flint-making forever.”

And so one morning, he selected three of his newly made flints—his best and no two alike—and wrapped them in a packet of rabbit skin. This done, he concealed his remaining flints together with the bone finishing tool, swept away all traces of his work and was soon on his way down the valley towards the Rock-shelter of Ferrassie.

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