stairs, trailing along the weirdest lot of stuff he'd collected.
"What on earth is all that?" Jerry asked him. "Drop it and get your hat."
"It's—my costume," Greg explained, out of breath from having dragged all the things down from the attic.
"Glory!" Jerry said, "You don't suppose you're going to lug all that rubbish on to the ferry, do you? Not while I'm with you, my boy."
"You couldn't begin to put on half of it, Gregs," I said. "Let's weed it out a little."
"And look sharp about it," Jerry said, jingling the money for the ferry in his pocket.
Greg finally took a Turkish fez thing, and a black-and-orange sash, and a white brocade waistcoat that Father once had for a masque ball ages ago. We had n't time to tell him that it was no sort of out-
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