In more ways than one has Jack Wingate thrown dust in his mother's eyes.
His going to the Ferry after a piece of whipcord and a bit of pitch was
fib the first; the second his not going there at all--for he has not.
Instead, in the very opposite direction; soon as reaching the road,
having turned his face towards Abergann, though his objective point is
but the "big elm." Once outside the gate he glides along the holly
hedge crouchingly, and with head ducked, so that it may not be seen by
the good dame, who has followed him to the door.
The darkness favouring him, it is not; and congratulating himself at
getting off thus deftly, he continues rapidly up the road.