Digital primer

'Stout, hale-looking men, dressed much alike, with great broad
tortoise-shell-rimmed spectacles on?' asked Jawleyford.
'Just so,' replied Sponge.
'Ah, you are right, then,' rejoined Jawleyford; 'it would be my lord.'
'And who was the other?' inquired our friend.
'Oh, that Jack Spraggon,' replied Jawleyford, curling up his nose, as if
he was going to be sick; 'one of the most odious wretches under the sun. I
really don't know any man that I have so great a dislike to, so utter a
contempt for, as that Jack, as they call him.'
'What is he?' asked Sponge.
'Oh, just a hanger-on of his lordship's; the creature has nothing--nothing
whatever; he lives on my lord--eats his venison, drinks his claret, rides
his horses, bullies those his lordship doesn't like to tackle with, and
makes himself generally useful.'
'He seems a man of that sort,' observed Sponge, as he thought over the
compliment he had received.
'Well, who else had you out, then?' asked Jawleyford. 'Was Tom Washball
there?'
'No,' replied Sponge: '_he_ wasn't out, I know.


Pages:
245 246 247 248 249 250 251 252 253 254 255 256 257 258 259 260 261 262 263 264 265 266 267 268 269