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Updated: May 11, 2025
Boosh!" he snorts, and darts around the pen like a whirlwind, scattering the leaves in forty ways, to stop short the shortest stop! and fall to rooting for acorns. He was once a long-tusked boar of the forest, this snow-white, sawed-off, pug-nose little porker of mine ages and ages ago.
See him caper, spin on his toes, shake himself, and curl his tail. That curl is his laugh. We double up and weep when we laugh hard; but the pig can't weep, and he can't double himself up; so he doubles up his tail. There is where his laugh comes off, curling and kinking in little spasms of pure pig joy. "Boosh!
Unless you report at my office on Monday morning, prepared to abandon all this idiocy and start in at the bottom of the business to work your way up, as you should have done half a dozen years ago, not another cent not another cent not another Boosh!" Then the door closed, and he was no longer with us. And I crawled out of the bombproof shelter. "Corky, old top!" I whispered faintly.
There's powder stowed down below, and it'll be going off directly. Gunpowder, you savvy, shoot-powder, go fizz boosh bang!" There was a sharp clatter of understanding and explanation, but no movement. The African is not great at making deductions. Captain Kettle had to give a definite order. "Now, overboard with you, all hands, and lib for beach. No time for lower boats. You all fit for swim."
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