Block · one region of the page, as the scanner read it. It may hold a whole story, part of one, several, or an advertisement; stitching blocks into articles is the next step. Text is supplied OCR.
Page 25 · column 1 of 5 · from the scan, no model involved
Story
From Page 4
pony club headmistress always taught us to do. ,
“All right, Mr. Blake, state the course, and you have a wager," I reply sourly, my blood rushing and focus sharpening through the dense fog.
“There is no course. You see, my friend, that’s the challenge. It doesn’t matter how you get from point-to-point, it only matters who gets there first,” Eddie cheerfully responds. “Let’s go from here in the St. Buttevant churchyard, to,” here he looked around, “...to the steeple at St. Leger to the west.”
Before he could draw another breath, I spur my old gelding in the sides and he responds (with bewilderment, I believe) by galloping headstrong toward “yon steeple.”
I hear Eddie behind me swearing things that he’ll apologize for tomorrow at mass. The gist of his message was that I was a “dirty rat” and “stole the start.”
So we race along head-totoe, over the first stone wall and the next hedge. At the corner of Ole Man Gallagher’s sheep field we turn sharply right and head toward the big open ditch (the one we never jump while chasing the fox, if given the choice.)
Eddie lands in front, and gathering his reins he speeds away from us. My gelding is
91.3%