The Village Walls resemble those in Hungary, but are something worse, being only long Stakes thrust into the Ground, and crossed through like Basket-work, and so dawbed all over on both sides with Mud and Dirt.

One of them strode to his side and ran experienced fingers through his clothes. No rod, he reported, where's the jewelry?

The outfielder tracked down the long fly.

Whing, whing, went the Spaniard's shot, like so many humming-tops, through the rigging far above their heads. . .