Terry looked immensely disgusted, but it struck me as extremely
funny. Here we had been risking our lives, hiding and prowling like
outlaws, living on nuts and fruit, getting wet and cold at night,
and dry and hot by day, and all the while these estimable women
had just been waiting for us to come out.
Now they began to explain, carefully using such words as we
could understand. It appeared that we were considered as guests
of the country--sort of public wards. Our first violence had made
it necessary to keep us safeguarded for a while, but as soon as
we learned the language--and would agree to do no harm--they would
show us all about the land.
Jeff was eager to reassure them. Of course he did not tell on
Terry, but he made it clear that he was ashamed of himself, and
that he would now conform. As to the language--we all fell upon
it with redoubled energy. They brought us books, in greater
numbers, and I began to study them seriously.
"Pretty punk literature," Terry burst forth one day, when we were
in the privacy of our own room.
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