He was of the friendly, neighborly, noisy, demonstrative spirit characteristic of his age and class.  He could have entered into this circle of strangers—­strangers for the most part, in all probability, to one another—­and in ten minutes’ time been one of them.  Their screams, their twang, their slang, their gossip, their jolly banter, and their gay ineptitude would have been to him like a welcome home.  But he was Norrie Ford, known by name and misfortune to every one of them.  The boys and girls on the pier, the elderly women in the rocking-chairs, even the waitresses who, in high-heeled shoes and elaborate coiffures, ministered disdainfully to the guests in the bare-floored dining-room, had discussed his life, his trial, his sentence, his escape, and formed their opinions upon him.  Were it possible for them to know now that he was lurking out there in the dark, watching their silhouettes and listening to their voices, there would be such a hue and cry as the lake had not heard since the Indians sighted Champlain on its banks.

It was this reflection that first of all stirred the current of his deep, slow resentment.  During the fifteen months since his arrest he had been either too busy, or too anxious, or too sorely puzzled at finding himself in so odd a position, to have leisure for positive anger.  At the worst of times he had never lost the belief that the world, or that portion of the world which concerned itself with him, would come to recognize the fact that it was making a mistake.  He had taken his imprisonment and his trial more or less as exciting adventures.  Even the words of his sentence lost most of their awfulness in his inner conviction that they were empty sounds.  Of the confused happenings on the night of his escape his clearest memory was that he had been hungry, while he thought of the weeks spent in the cabin as a “picnic.”  Just as good spirits had seldom failed him, so patience had rarely deserted him.  Such ups and downs of emotion as he had experienced resulted in the long run in an increase of optimism.  In the back of his slow mind he kept the expectation, almost the intention, of giving his anger play—­some time; but only when his rights should have been restored to him.

But he felt it coming on him now, before he was prepared for it.  It was taking him unawares, and without due cause, roused by the chance perception that he was cut off from rightful, natural companionship.  Nothing as yet had brought home to him the meaning of his situation like the talk and laughter of these lads and girls, who suddenly became to him what Lazarus in Abraham’s bosom was to Dives in his torment.