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Updated: May 23, 2025
Then a voice at my back, making me forget the sizzling stuff, the fire, the breakfast, said with a note of extreme anxiety: "Good morning, Jackachobee! Oughtn't Echochee be here by this time? You don't think any thing's happened to her, do you? I can't whistle like a plover and had to come to breakfast unannounced. I hope it's ready. You've seen nothing of those men?"
You no be 'fraid." "Thank you," she said wearily. Ah, how tired her voice did seem! "There water; good to drink. You hungry?" I asked. "No, thank you, what is your name?" This was a poser, for I had not thought up a name. But, of course, Jack came first into my mind, so I answered: "Jackachobee." "No, thank you, Jackachobee," she said, "I'm not hungry." "You want gun?" I asked again.
I thought this would satisfy, but it gave her another thought, instead. "Your name isn't Jackachobee, of course?" "As far as Jack, yes. Every one calls me Jack." A little while before this my cigarette case had fallen, to the ground by us. She had picked it up, and was even now turning it idly between her fingers. "I see it here," she said, looking more closely at the monogram.
I saw, too, in a hazy kind of way, a most bewitching costume at least, admirably suited to her: a waist of olive-drab, not unlike our service shirts but of delicate material, open at the throat and fitting her snugly; quite a short skirt to match, and laced tan boots. "Please don't shoot," I said, trying to smile. "Where is Jackachobee?" she demanded. "I'm Jackachobee."
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