"I was an explorer," Greg explained shakily.
"He was Baroo, the Madagascar cabin-boy," Jerry said, gnawing the
loaf, and I thought it seemed years ago that we had _trekked_ across
Wecanicut.
"I see," said our man, in his nice, kind, reliable way, and then he
said to Greg, "I didn't hurt you much, did I, old fellow?"
And Greg shook his head, and said:
"Thank you for coming."
That was what we all felt, but none of us had put it so simply
before.
"What's this?" the man said, as he was gathering up the rest of the
bandages.
It was the Simpson-thing, and it did look very funny by daylight, I
must say,--just a wob of blue flannel tied with a string. I was
going to explain, but Jerry said, with his mouth full:
"Oh, just something we had," and stuffed it away in the kit-bag. He
was quite red. Boys are funny sometimes.
"Now," said our man, "comes the embarkation, and I'm afraid I'll
have to hurt you a little, Greg."
He picked Greg up in one swinging swoop, and I wished that Jerry and
I had been strong enough to do that last night. Greg had only time
for one gasp before he was quite comfortable against our man's
shoulder. But he _was_ brave, because it must have hurt like
anything, even then, and I could see his jaw set hard. Jerry and I
gathered up the kit-bag and the jersey and what was left of the
skirt and followed along.
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