"Don't get streelin' off too far," Katy said, "Where are ye goin'?"

"Oh, down by the shore," I said, which was not quite the whole
truth, because of course it was not our shore, but the shore of
Wecanicut I meant. Yes, _all_ of it was my fault.

Just as we were putting the lunch into the kit-bag Greg came
staggering downstairs, 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 hadn't time to tell him that it was no sort of outfit
for an explorer, so we bundled the things up with our own and
stuffed them all into the kit-bag on top of the lunch.