They had picked a wild place, a tumbled mountain area, filled with deep ravines, clothed in flowers and trees and with a mountain brook with water that was as clear as glass and as cold as ice.
They had played games and romped. They had swam and sunbathed and they had listened to his stories, sitting in a circle, needling him and interrupting him, picking arguments.
But he had laughed at them, not openly, but deep inside himself, for he knew now that they meant no harm, but merely sought amusement.
Weeks before he had been insulted and outraged and humiliated, but as the days went on he had adapted to it - had forced himself to adapt. If they wished a clown, then he would be a clown. If he were court fool, with bells and parti-colored garments, then he must wear the colors well and keep the bells ringing merrily.
There was occasional maliciousness in them and some cruelty, but no lasting harm. And you could get along with them, he told himself, if you just knew how to do it.
When evening came they had built a fire and had sat around it and had talked and laughed and joked, for once leaving him alone. Elaine and Betty had been nervous. Jim had laughed at them for their nervousness.
"No animals will come near a fire," he said.
"There are animals?" Bishop had asked.
"A few," said Jim. "Not many of them left."
He had lain there, staring at the fire, listening to their voices, glad that for once they were leaving him alone. Like a dog must feel, he thought. Like a pup hiding in a corner from a gang of rowdy children who are always mauling it.