Roby's farm, at Runton--you'll know Mr. Roby?'
'Not I,' replied Mr. Sponge, hoisting himself into the saddle, and holding
out a hand to take leave of his host.
'Good night, sir; good night!' exclaimed Mr. Peastraw, shaking it; 'and
have the goodness to tell Mr. Crowdey from me that the next time he comes
here a bush-rangin', I'll thank him to shut the gates after him. He set all
my young stock wrong the last time he was here.'
'I will,' replied Mr. Sponge, riding off.
Mr. Peastraw's directions were well calculated to confuse a clearer head
than Mr. Sponge then carried; and the reader will not be surprised to learn
that, long before he reached the Winslow Woods, he was regularly
bewildered. Indeed, there is no surer way of losing oneself than trying to
follow a long train of directions in a strange country. It is far better
to establish one's own landmarks, and make for them as the natural course
of the country seems to direct. Our forefathers had a wonderful knack of
getting to points with as little circumlocution as possible.
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