the grass, the hum of insects in the thyme,
the ruffle and rustle of the flock below, and a thickish mutter deep in
the very chalk beneath them. Mr Dudeney stopped explaining, and went
on with his knitting. They were roused by voices. The shadow had crept
halfway down the steep side of Norton Pit, and on the edge of it, his
back to them, Puck sat beside a half-naked man who seemed busy at some
work. The wind had dropped, and in that funnel of ground every least
noise and movement reached them like whispers up a water-Pipe.

'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 Pit threw back the echo from its dry sides--'Wuff!' Wuff!' like
Young jim's bark.

'You see? You hear?' said Puck. 'Nobody answers. Grey Shepherd is gone.
Feet-in-the-Night has run off. There are no more wolves.'

'Wonderful!' The man wiped his forehead as though he were hot. 'Who
drove him away? You?'

'Many men through many years, each working in his own country. Were you
one of them?' Puck answered.

The man slid his sheepskin cloak to his waist, and without a word
pointed to his side, which was all seamed and blotched with scars.
His arms, too, were dimpled from shoulder to elbow with horrible white
dimples.

'I see,' said Puck. 'It is The Beast's mark. What did you use against
him?' 'Hand, hammer, and spear, as our fathers did before us.'

'So? Then how'--Puck twitched aside the man's dark-brown cloak--'how did
a Flint-worker come by that? Show, man, show!' He held out his little
hand.

The man slipped a lon