style. Do you suppose he really does want us to write to him?"
"Of course he does," Greg said; "he tells us to often enough. Think of being alone out there with savages, and that bearded chief coming with poison bottles and all."
"Shut up, Greg," said Jerry; "you don't understand. There's more in this than meets the eye, Chris. I did n't get on to this crab salad business when you read it."
Neither had I; in fact, I had n't got on to it until Jerry said it in proper English.
"He's a good sort, poor old dear," I said. "Why do you suppose they keep him out there?"
"He's there of his own free will, right enough," Jerry said.
But I did n't think so.
We were still confabbing over the letter, and explaining bits to Greg, who was hopelessly mystified, when Mother came out to transplant some columbine that had wan-
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