Digital primer

Time now, let us
suppose, half-past ten, with a full muster of horsemen and a fog making
unwonted dulness of the scene--the old sign-pole being the most conspicuous
object of the whole.
Hark! what a clamour there is about it. It's like a betting-post at
Newmarket. How loud the people talk! What's the news? Queen Anne dead, or
is there another French Revolution, or a fixed duty on corn? Reader, Mr.
Puffington's hounds have had a run, and the Flat Hat men are disputing it.
'Nothing of the sort! nothing of the sort!' exclaims Fossick, 'I know every
yard of the country, and you can't make more nor eight of it anyhow, if
eight.'
'Well, but I've measured it on the map,' replied the speaker (Charley Slapp
himself), 'and it's thirteen, if it's a yard.'
'Then the country's grown bigger since my day,' rejoins Fossick, 'for I was
dropped at Stubgrove, which is within a mile of where you found, and I've
walked, and I've ridden, and I've driven every yard of the distance, and
you can't make it more than eight, if it's as much.


Pages:
403 404 405 406 407 408 409 410 411 412 413 414 415 416 417 418 419 420 421 422 423 424 425 426 427