He dug roots from the ground, he searched for berries
and fruits, he hid behind rocks to leap upon his living prey, yet
often went hungry to his lair at night, if the root-crop were short,
or the wild beast wary.
But if the day had been a fortunate one, if his own stomach were
filled and his body sheltered, little cared he whether long-haired
savage number two were hungry and cold. "Every one for himself," would
he say, as he rolled himself in his skins, "and the cave-bear, or any
other handy beast, take the hindmost." The simplicity of his mental
state, his complete freedom from responsibility, assure us that
his digestion of the raw flesh and the tough roots must have been
perfection, and the sleep in those furred skins a dreamless one.
What impending visitation of a common enemy, what sudden descent of a
fierce horde of strange, wild, long-forgotten creatures, first moved
him to ally himself with barbarians number two and three for their
mutual protection? And when long years of alliance in warfare, and
mutual distrust at all other times, had slipped away, and when savages
were turning into herdsmen and farmers and toolmakers, to what
leader among men did a system of exchange of commodities for mutual
convenience suggest itself?
One would like to have met that painted savage who first suggested
combination in warfare, or that later politico-economist upon whom it
faintly dawned that mutual help was possible in other directions save
that of blood-shedding.
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