'I do not understand your meaning.'
'Sketches?—does that word puzzle you as did patines? They are what some folk call stilts. I can run on them like a crane. But sketches are cumbrous, and, when the fen is soft, tire one speedily.'
'Let us return now.'
'No indeed. You have nothing to call you back. That fellow Drownlands, old scoundrel,—I beg your pardon,—will not be angry with you and thrash you, I suppose?'
'He is not at home. He has gone abroad for the day.'
'Then come along. We will visit Newport.'
'Please do not take me much farther.'
'Why not? Are you not enjoying the run?'
'I love it.'
'Then away we go. You are not afraid of travelling, with me as your horse?'