Digital primer

'F--o--o--r--rard!' screams old Tom, flying the fence after them, followed
by jealous jostling riders in scarlet and colours, some anxious, some easy,
some wanting to be at it, some wanting to look as if they did, some wishing
to know if there was anything on the far side.
Now Tom tops another fence, rising like a rocket and dropping like a bird;
still 'F--o--o--r--rard!' is the cry--away they go at racing pace.
The field draws out like a telescope, leaving the largest portion at the
end, and many--the fair and fat ones in particular--seeing the hopelessness
of the case, pull up their horses, while yet on an eminence that commands a
view. Fifteen or twenty horsemen enter for the race, and dash forward,
though the hounds rather gain on old Tom, and the further they go the
smaller the point of the telescope becomes. The pace is awful; many would
give in but for the ladies. At the end of a mile or so, the determined ones
show to the front, and the spirters and 'make-believes' gladly avail
themselves of their pioneering powers.


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