“We are leaving for the cool country,” the Mammoth explained. “You will join us, of course.”
“No, I am not going,” Pic declared. “Why should I? This is my home”; and he pointed to the grotto.
“Not going?” the Mammoth repeated in a hollow voice. “Are we to understand that you refuse to join Wulli and me—your only friends?”
“Agh, it is so,” Pic replied in tones of genuine regret; “But I have much work to do, and—there are other reasons. Things have changed since we were last together. I cannot go with you, nor would I if I could.”
Pic was visibly embarrassed. He kept his eyes on the ground and seemed loth to raise them. Hairi and Wulli looked at each other in amazement. Some strange influence had come over their former companion. His care-free recklessness was gone and he spoke in a way they could not understand.
“It is you who have changed,” said the Mammoth. “Wulli, I, everything else is the same as it has always been. Every hair on my body is as it was; not one more nor less.”
Pic glanced up quickly.
“Well said,” he replied. “I have changed and you have not. Agh, you cannot understand. No longer do I have idle moments. All of my time must now be given to making weapons.”
“What are your other reasons?” asked Wulli. “I do not think much of the first one.”
Pic looked thoughtfully at the pair, then turned and glanced behind him. Then without replying, he arose and strode to the grotto. He disappeared within, but in a moment came out again with a bundle in his arms—a small bundle wrapped in a badger-skin. He bore it with the greatest care, lifting his feet high to avoid stumbling on the uneven rock-floor. Several steps carefully chosen and he stood directly beneath the giant Mammoth’s head.