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Gaddis: Starting Out with Java: From Control Structures through Data Structures, 3/e 1
Starting Out with Java - From Control Structures through Data Structures
Answers to Review Questions
Chapter 9
1. c
2. b
3. a
4. a
5. a
6. c
7. b
8. a
9. d
10. b
11. a
12. c
13. d
14. a
15. False
16. True
17. False
18. True
19. True
20. False
21. True
22. False
23. False
screen, a loop should be used to process each element in the array, so the
statement should read:
for (String s : tokens)
System.out.println(s)
Algorithm Workbench
1. if (Character.toUpperCase(choice) == 'Y')
Or
if (Character.toLowerCase(choice) == 'y')
2. int total = 0;
for (int i = 0; i < str.length(); i++)
{
if (str.charAt(i) == ' ')
total++;
}
3. int total = 0;
for (int i = 0; i < str.length(); i++)
{
if (Character.isDigit(str.charAt(i)))
total++;
}
4. int total = 0;
for (int i = 0; i < str.length(); i++)
{
if (Character.isLowerCase(str.charAt(i)))
total++;
}
if (str2.endsWith(".com"))
status = true;
else
status = false;
return status;
}
9. if (d <= Integer.MAX_VALUE)
i = (int) d;
10. System.out.println(Integer.toBinaryString(i));
System.out.println(Integer.toHexString(i));
System.out.println(Integer.toOctalString(i));
Short Answer
1. This will improve the program’s efficiency by reducing the number of String
objects that must be created and then removed by the garbage collector.
2. When you are tokenizing a string that was entered by the user, and you are using
characters other than whitespaces as delimiters, you will probably want to trim the
string before tokenizing it. Otherwise, if the user enters leading whitespace
characters, they will become part of the first token. Likewise, if the user enters
trailing whitespace characters, they will become part of the last token.
3. Converts a number to a string.
4. Each of the numeric wrapper classes has final static fields named MAX_VALUE
and MIN_VALUE. These fields hold the maximum and minimum values for the
data type.
The proud tears were still in the eyes of our mistress, when she
looked all about her swiftly with the features of a hawk. In ringing
tones she cried, “Bring forth the spawn of darkness. We will now
arrange his fate.”
When the Count of Nullepart and myself made to obey this
command, as you will believe, gentle reader, we had grave concern
lest madam should observe the presence of the captive’s ears. And
such was her present humour that I think we did well to have
apprehension of the penalty that might overtake us. Greatly doubtful,
we led forth the Castilian from his durance and brought him into the
room.
The King of Castile entered the presence of his victorious
adversaries with a calm and noble smile. Yet no sooner did his gaze
fall upon the grey-bearded noblemen with halters about their necks
than his eyes drooped, and a great anguish seemed to cloud them.
The relentless eyes of madam were fixed upon her foe.
“Dost thou see them, bloody-minded one?” said she. “These old
bears shall have the fangs drawn out of their chaps so that they shall
bite no more.”
Then, like a veritable sovereign princess, she turned to Sir Richard
Pendragon, to whom all the success of her arms was due.
“Avise us, Sirrah Red Dragon. Avise us in what manner we shall cast
out these several parcels of beastliness that encumber the earth.”
“By our lady!” said the English giant, rubbing the palm of one hand
slowly round that of the other, “if that is not my honest gossip, John
Castilian, I am a poor mad soul! English Richard gives a greeting to
you, John Castilian, a greeting to your most excellent King’s
majesty.”
Upon this speaking, Sir Richard Pendragon was like to crack his
head on the ground with his lowly obeisance.
Although the King of Castile seemed all broken by the disaster that
had overtaken his arms, upon hearing the voice of Sir Richard
Pendragon he looked up and received his mockery with an
unflinching glance.
“Foreign robber,” he said simply, “you have borne yourself as a true
captain. I make you my service. And as the life of myself and the
lives of my honourable friends are forfeit to your cunning I hope that
they may profit you.”
These words, spoken only as a King could deliver them, brought a
sort of whimsical pity to the mocking face of the English barbarian.
“Dost thou remember, John Castilian,” he said, with that softness
which the Count of Nullepart and I knew was wont to accompany his
most ferocious designs, “that summer’s morning a twelvemonth
since, when thou flungest one of a gentle and kindly nurture, a good
mother’s son, into the deepest dungeon of your Spanish palace, and
chained him by the leg, with foul straws for his pillow, and with lean
rats and large beetles for his only familiar company?”
“Yes, foreign robber, I remember it to my sorrow,” said the King of
Castile coldly. “And had I broke you upon the wheel and thrown your
corpse to the dogs a day before my reckoning, I should not now be
mourning for not having done so.”
“John Castilian,” said the Englishman, “you speak in the wise of an
unfortunate famous ancestor of mine own. He was called Sir
Procrastinatus, owing to the unlucky habit of his mind that he
continually put off till the morrow that which he should have done the
day; a habit that in the process of nature grew upon the unlucky
wight in such a measure that upon the last day of his life he failed to
die until after his friends had buried him. Can it be, John Castilian,
that yourself is a victim to a like preoccupancy? For I understand
from madam’s gracious ladyship that your trench hath been dug the
last three days in the kitchen midden.”
“No, no, Sirrah Red Dragon, that is not so,” said madam ruthlessly.
“The spawn of darkness is entitled to no burial. We will hang it upon
a fork on the outer barbican to poison the crows and the vultures and
the unclean fowls of the air.”
“A thousand pardons, ladyship,” said Sir Richard Pendragon. “It
appears I am the victim of a misinformation.”
“Do you avise us, Sirrah Red Dragon, so that the bloody-minded
prince shall begin his dying immediately. But we would have him
take not less than one-and-twenty days to the consummation of it,
for we would have him drain the dregs of the cup he hath prepared
for others.”
It was here, however, that Sir Richard Pendragon began to stroke his
beard. Mad he was, and whimsical, yet beyond all things he had a
mind for affairs. Therefore he was fain to speak aside with the Count
of Nullepart and myself.
“By my troth,” he said, “it would be a happy deliverance of a bad man
if John Castilian was hung on the gate with a spike through his neck.
But grievously do I doubt me of the wisdom of the policy. We are but
three hundred men-at-arms, and Castile is a broad dominion. If we
put out the life of this prince, the queen-mother will gather new
forces and come again to the gate. And honest Dickon is fain to
observe that the old bitch wolf will be found with a longer tooth than
the whelp.”
That this was the voice of wisdom we had no thought to deny.
Therefore it behoved us to spread the light of statecraft before our
mistress. Yet, as you will readily believe, such a task was no light
one. Still, accomplished it must be, although he who would turn a
woman aside from her vengeance may be said to take his life in his
hand.
Sir Richard Pendragon, however, was the last man in the world to
blench before the face of danger. And so, with a most humble civility
that rendered the sinister laughter of his eyes the more formidable,
he addressed the Countess Sylvia.
“Madam,” said he, “was old honest Dickon dreaming o’ nights when
he heard the grace of your ladyship’s nobility declare that he might
command her anything?”
The fair damask cheek of our mistress grew again like that of a
carnation; again were her eyes filled with proud shining.
“You heard aright, Sirrah Red Dragon,” she said softly. “It is my
desire that you command me anything.”
“Then old honest Dickon, a good fellow, kisses your small feet and
makes you a leg, peerless rose of the south, and he asks for the life
of John Castilian.”
The bosom of our mistress heaved rebelliously. Tears of mortified
caprice crept into her eyes. With contempt and bitterness she cast a
glance at the King, who stood in mournful converse with his
ministers. She then confronted her great captain.
“Sirrah Red Dragon,” she said in accents that were choked by a rage
of tears, “do you take the life of the spawn of darkness. Use it as you
will, sirrah. It was you that gave it to me; it is meet that you should
receive it back again. I do not ask upon what pretext you would hold
it; but—but, sirrah,” and her whole form quivered strangely, “I do ask
—I do ask, sirrah, is this the whole of your good pleasure?”
Yet no sooner had she spoke those last unlucky words, and, as it
were, laid bare her proud bosom, than she averted her beautiful
cheeks that were like a scarlet rose, and in the sudden wild rage of
her own weakness, that she whom kings must woo in vain had come
herself to woo, she hid her eyes.
“Nay, by the soul of a nice mother,” said Sir Richard Pendragon, “this
is but a moiety of what her good son would ask you. Having received
the life of John Castilian, he would ask your permission, madam, that
in some sort he may punish him, for you need not to be told that his
crimes are many and abominable.”
“As you say, Sirrah Red Dragon, his crimes are many and
abominable,” said the Countess Sylvia. “I would indeed have you
punish him. I would have you punish him with all possible rigour.”
Speaking thus, she gazed at the unfortunate prince with a power of
resentment that he, who was true to his degree, met with a calm
indifferency.
“All possible rigour,” said Sir Richard Pendragon softly, “is indeed the
best part of the design of your old honest servant. And to that end,
madam, I would ask to deliver John Castilian to you again in order
that you may bestow this dreadful rigor upon him.”
“It is well, Sirrah Red Dragon,” said his mistress. “In this you are
wise. We shall know in what sort to visit the spawn of darkness and
bloody-minded prince.”
“And yet, madam,” said Sir Richard Pendragon, “by the grace of your
ladyship is it not left to old honest Dickon to nominate the weapons
of your severity?”
“Pray do so, Sirrah Red Dragon,” said madam with a courteous
indulgence. “But perhaps you will not omit to weigh the efficacy upon
delicate flesh of hot sharp-pointed nails? And also of hard pieces of
rock upon the sensitive limb bones?”
“Nay, madam,” said Sir Richard Pendragon, “a good mother’s son
forgets not the efficacy of these honest things; yet, under the favour
of your ladyship, if he is minded to speak out of his ripe observation,
this elderly seeker after virtue would venture to recommend an even
more dreadful rigour, a rigour even more salutary.”
“By every manner of means, Sirrah Red Dragon, I would have you
recommend it.”
As the Countess Sylvia spoke she fixed another remorseless glance
upon the unhappy prince.
“That which one who is old, madam,” said the English giant in his
softest voice, “and one who hath been accustomed all his years to
grope for the light of the truth is fain to recommend to the grace of
your ladyship, is the most excessive rigour known to mankind; a
greater rigour which contains all the lesser rigours within itself; a
rigour which poor unlucky manhood, be it that of prince or of
peasant, is wont to regard with the same abhorrence as a sea-coal
fire is regarded by a gib cat with a singed tail. The barbarous and
excessive rigour to which your old honest servant refers, madam, is
that which is profanely called holy matrimony. English Dickon humbly
submits, madam, that you should receive John Castilian in the bonds
of wedlock, and so visit the royal rascal according to his merit.”
Upon the enunciation of this project, which had only been possible to
one of Sir Richard Pendragon’s surpassing boldness, the Count of
Nullepart and myself had a lively fear that madam would drive her
poinard into the heart of her over-presumptuous captain. For when
he spoke in this wise her slender fingers trembled on the jewelled hilt
of her dagger, and she cried out with flaming eyes,—
“Wed the spawn of darkness, sirrah! Wed the bloody-minded prince!”
“Even so, madam,” said the English giant, withdrawing a pace from
her striking hand. “Under your gracious favour, that is the rigour that
is humbly proposed by one who hath grown old in the love of virtue.”
As the Englishman spoke, a change was wrought in the demeanour
of the Countess Sylvia. Like a very woman or a small child, or
perchance like them both (for the worshipful Count of Nullepart
assures me that they are one and the same), she peered into the
eyes of her captain. And the manner of this action, which was one of
a furtive modesty, seemed to imply that she dared hardly to look lest
she should discover that which she feared to see.
“Wed the spawn of darkness!” she breathed softly. “I—I, Sirrah Red
Dragon—I wed the froward prince!”
She continued to repeat these words in a low voice. Yet ever and
anon she peered upwards to the red and hungry eyes of her great
captain, that were full of a sombre and whimsical phantasy. And to
the worshipful Count of Nullepart and to myself, who hung upon
each phase of that which was toward, it seemed to us both, in the
curious anguish of our hearts, that the lifeblood of the little Countess
Sylvia ebbed away from her even as she gazed.
CHAPTER XXXVIII
THE LAST
I know not how long it was before the eyes of our mistress recoiled
from that humorous front with which her great captain met the whole
assembly. With her, I fear it must have been an age. Yet at last her
gaze, that was now hapless, faltered altogether, and, like a proud-
wingèd bird with its plumage torn, it fell to earth.
At the same instant this delectable form was shaken bitterly. And
then our mistress looked up, and with eyes that shone no more like
the Tagus, and with cheeks ashen white instead of the rosy carmine
of a fair flower, she said with a most beautiful gentleness,—
“An it please you, Sirrah Red Dragon, I—I will wed the froward
prince.”
Without permitting her unhappiness to stray away to him to whom
this resolve was published, she summoned to her side the royal
captive with an air that was ineffable.
The King, who was only too well acquainted with all that had passed,
for it was of the highest significance to Castile and to himself, came
forward at his youthful cousin’s behest.
“Froward prince,” said the Countess Sylvia, speaking with a sweet
broken gentleness which yet seemed to proclaim a wide dominion of
the soul, “your crime is forgot. The halters are taken from the throats
of your ministers. Your treasuries are given back to you; and with
them is given my good pleasure.”
With a cheek the colour of snow, our mistress held forth her slender
jewelled fingers to him of Castile. Yet at first the King made no sign,
perhaps for bewilderment or perhaps for shame. And then, slowly
and modestly, with a humility in all his gestures, with a pure and
noble fire in his eyes, he knelt before her and bowed his head.
THE END
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