It was a combination of the town and country.

The tails of his black cloth coat were pinned up behind to keep them from rubbing; he had on a pair of moleskin trousers and leather gaiters, and in his hand he carried a little whip of rhinoceros hide.
Waldo started and looked up.

Had there been a moment's time he would have dug a hole in the sand with his hands and buried his treasure.

It was only a toy of wood, but he loved it, as one of necessity loves what has been born of him, whether of the flesh or spirit.

When cold eyes have looked at it, the feathers are rubbed off our butterfly's wing forever.
"What have you here, my lad ?" said Bonaparte, standing by him, and pointing with the end of his whip to the medley of wheels and hinges.
The boy muttered something inaudible, and half spread over the thing.
"But this seems to be a very ingenious little machine," said Bonaparte, seating himself on the antheap, and bending down over it with deep interest.