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"Could it be that city we be seeking?" "Would that we had a boat!" said Greg, which might have been quite proper if he'd been somebody else, instead of Baroo. We'd been sprawling on the sand again for quite a while, when Jerry suddenly jumped up and shouted: "Glory! Look, Chris!" not at all like Terry Loganshaw. I did look, and saw what he had seen.
"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."
Jerry was "Terry Loganshaw," in charge of the party, and I was "Christopher Hole, shipmaster," and Greg was "Baroo, the Madagascar cabin-boy," because we couldn't think of what else he could be, with such clothes. We tidied up all the picnic things so that there was nothing left, and put the root-beer bottle into the kit-bag, because it was a good one with a patent top.
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