There were disasters innumerable when the boy began and much bad stone
was spoiled, but he had a will and a good eye and hand, and it came, in
time, that he could strike off a flake with only a little less of
deftness than his teacher and that, even in the more delicate work of the
finer chipping to complete the weapon, he was a workman not to be
despised. He had an ambition in it all and old Mok was satisfied with
what he did.
The boy was always experimenting, ever trying a new flint chipper or
using a third stone to tap delicately the one held in the hand to make
the fracture, or wondering aloud why it would not be well to make this
flint knife a little thinner, or that spearhead a trifle heavier. He was
questioning as he worked and something of a nuisance with it all, but old
Mok endured with what was, for him, an astonishing degree of patience,
and would sometimes comment grumblingly to the effect that the boy could
at least chip stone far better than some men. And then the veteran would
look at One-Ear, who was, notoriously, a bad flint worker,--though, a
weapon once in his grasp, there were few could use it with surer eye or
heavier hand--and would chuckle as he made the comment. As for One-Ear,
he listened placidly enough. He was glad a son of his could make good
weapons.
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