Digital primer

'Tuesday! Oh, that's the cross-roads. Capital
place, unless the fox takes to Rumborrow Craigs, or gets into Seedywood
Forest, when there's an end of it--at least, an end of everything except
pulling one's horse's legs off in the stiff clayey rides. It's a long way
from here, though,' observed Jack.
'How far?' asked Sponge.
'Good twenty miles,' replied Jack. 'It's sixteen from us; it'll be a good
deal more from here.'
'His lordship will lay out overnight, then?' observed Sponge.
'Not he,' replied Jack. 'Takes better care of his sixpences than that. Up
in the dark, breakfast by candlelight, grope our ways to the stable, and
blunder along the deep lanes, and through all the by-roads in the
country--get there somehow or another.'
'Keen hand!' observed Sponge.
'Mad!' replied Jack.
They then paid their mutual respects to the port.
'He hunts there on Tuesdays,' observed Jack, setting down his glass, 'so
that he may have all Wednesday to get home in, and be sure of appearing on
Thursday. There's no saying where he may finish with a cross-roads' meet.


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