experience, for nothing is nastier than warm root-beer. Then we put
on the costumes and capered about a little. I had a tight,
striped football jersey, and my gym bloomers, and a black,
villainous-looking felt hat; and Jerry had a ruffle pinned on the
front of his shirt, and a wide belt with the big tinfoil-covered
buckle that Mother made for us once, and a felt hat fastened up on
the sides so that it looked like a real three-cornered one. Greg had
arrayed himself in his things, and he did look too absurd, with more
than a foot of the brocade waistcoat dangling below the sash, the
end of which trailed on the ground behind.

It gave us a queer, wild feeling, being there without the grown-ups,
and we decided to tell them that as we'd proved we could do it, we
might go again. We never did tell them that, as it happens.

We all grew hungry so soon that we had lunch much earlier than the
grown-ups would have had it. The food Katy had fixed was wonderful,
though rather squashed on account of all the costumes being
on top of it in the kit-bag. While we ate we organized the
Submerged-City-Seeking-Expedition. Jerry was "Terry Loganshaw," in
charge of the party, and I was "Christopher Hole, shipmaster," and
Greg was "Baroo, the Madagascar cabin-boy," because we couldn't
think of what else he could be, with such clothes.

We tidied up all the picnic things so that there was nothing left,
and put the root-beer bottle into the kit-bag, because it was a good
one with a patent top. The kit-bag we took with us for duffle, and
we set off for the point. We went by the longest way we could think
of, to make it seem like a real expedition,--'cross country and back
again. Jerry led us through the scratchy, overgrown part of