Digital primer

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'Where are the hounds?' asked our hero.
''Ounds be at Whirleypool Windmill,' replied Leather, 'that's about five
miles off.'
'What sort of country is it?' inquired Sponge.
'It be a stiffish country from all accounts, with a good deal o' water
jumpin'; that is to say, the Liffey runs twistin' and twinin' about it like
a H'Eel.'
'Then I'd better ride the brown, I think,' observed Sponge, after a pause:
'he has size and stride enough to cover anything, if he will but face
water.'
'I'll warrant him for that,' replied Leather; 'only let the Latchfords well
into him, and he'll go.'
'Are there many hunting-men down?' inquired our friend casually.
'Great many,' replied Leather, 'great many; some good 'ands among 'em too;
at least to say their grums, though I never believe all these jockeys say.
There be some on 'em 'ere now,' observed Leather, in an undertone, with a
wink of his roguish eye, and jerk of his head towards where a knot of them
stood eyeing our friend most intently.
'Which?' inquired Sponge, looking about the thinly peopled station.


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