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Test Bank for Introduction to Java Programming and Data Structures
Comprehensive Version, 12th Edition, Y. Daniel Liang,

Table of Contents
1. Introduction to Computers, Programs, and JavaTM
2. Elementary Programming
3. Selections
4. Mathematical Functions, Characters, and Strings
5. Loops
6. Methods
7. Single-Dimensional Arrays
8. Multidimensional Arrays
9. Objects and Classes
10. Object-Oriented Thinking
11. Inheritance and Polymorphism
12. Exception Handling and Text I/O
13. Abstract Classes and Interfaces
14. JavaFX Basics
15. Event-Driven Programming and Animations
16. JavaFX UI Controls and Multimedia
17. Binary I/O
18. Recursion
19. Generics
20. Lists, Stacks, Queues, and Priority Queues
21. Sets and Maps
22. Developing Efficient Algorithms
23. Sorting
24. Implementing Lists, Stacks, Queues, and Priority Queues
25. Binary Search Trees
26. AVL Trees
27. Hashing
28. Graphs and Applications
29. Weighted Graphs and Applications
30. Aggregate Operations for Collection Streams
Bonus Chapters 31–44 are available from the Companion Website at
www.pearsonhighered.com/liang:
31. Advanced JavaFX and FXML
32. Multithreading and Parallel Programming
33. Networking
34. Java Database Programming
35. Advanced Database Programming
36. Internationalization
37. Servlets
38. JavaServer Pages
39. JavaServer Faces
40. RMI
41. Web Services
42. 2-4 Trees and B-Trees
43. Red-Black Trees
44. Testing Using JUnit
APPENDIXES
A. Java Keywords and Reserved Words
B. The ASCII Character Set
C. Operator Precedence Chart
D. Java Modifiers
E. Special Floating-Point Values
F. Number Systems
G. Bitwise Operations
H. Regular Expressions
I. Enumerated Types
J. The Big-O, Big-Omega, and Big-Theta Notations
Other documents randomly have
different content
 XXXIV.
I left off somewhat abruptly last night, you may say, but indeed I
think there is nothing which it would be profitable to set down in this
place of what befell at Starcross. Referring to my diary, I find a
mention of cockles (upon which Starcross prides itself), which some
kindly stranger invited us to partake of as we were having tea, all
three of us, in the hotel coffee-room. But cockles (if you will excuse
the Irishry) are very small beer, so I do not propose to trouble you
with an account of them. I will merely say that we had tea and went
to bed, and rose and breakfasted in the morning, and presently set
out for Teignmouth.
 STARCROSS.

Starcross has aspirations. It is a little village, whose fishers, in a

whimsical manner of shorthand, paint their boats *+ by way of
informing the world at large whence they hail. It fancies itself a
watering-place, but it is just a quiet settlement, with a ferry to
Exmouth, and a fishing jetty by the station, and, riding out at anchor
in the Exe, a curious pleasure-boat, fashioned in the shape of a huge
swan. This little town was, and possibly remains, dependent upon
the Courtenays. The chief of the two hotels, the Courtenay Arms,
exhibits the heraldic devices of that ancient family and its mournful
motto—Quid feci? ubi lapsus.
The railway here runs beside the road, and presently crosses
Cockwood Creek on a wooden viaduct. Then came a notice, warning
all and sundry of what dreadful things should be done to all them
that trespassed upon the line. We therefore crossed over here, and
on the other side found ourselves on the Warren, a broad expanse
of sand, partly covered at high water. Above high-water mark the
sand is held together by rank grasses and tufts of furze; and
beneath are the thickly populated burrows of innumerable rabbits. In
shallow pools herons were patiently waiting; while, as we walked
along, we disturbed plovers, which rose up and flew away with
whirring wings. Wild ducks and sea-gulls were plenty.
At the western end of the Warren we came upon Langstone
Point, the eastward boundary of the port of Teignmouth. At top of it
is a trim coastguard station, and across the line rise the red cliffs of
Mount Pleasant, fronted with a chalêt-like inn. Then we came upon
the sea-wall that leads into Dawlish.

LANGSTONE POINT.

When the excursionist from London sees the yellow sands and
rippling sea, the red rocks, the green lawns, and the sliding rivulets
and miniature cascades of Dawlish from the railway platform, he is
unhappy, because the place looks so charming, and he is going to
leave it for places he knows not, but which (he thinks) cannot begin
to compare with this fairyland. But Dawlish is seen at its best from
the railway station and under such hurried circumstances. The place
affords little satisfaction when one comes to the exploration of it.
The town is bright and lively, and the sands crowded in summer, and
the sea-wall well frequented, but Dawlish lives only for and on the
visitor; when its short season is done and the visitors have departed,
there is (consequently) no business of any kind. It is just a little
town, bandbox neat, called into existence by these touring times,
and in the spring, autumn, and winter it is as deserted and
woebegone as any dead city of the plains. For here is no port, nor
river, nor any anchorage, and, for all that is doing in winter months,
the inhabitants might hibernate like the dormouse and not miss
anything.

MOUNT PLEASANT.

Dawlish Station is built on the sands, and the Great Western

Railway runs along under the cliffs, on a sea-wall of solid masonry,
from Langstone Point, through the five tunnels of Lee Mount and
Hole Head, to Teignmouth.
Dawlish did not detain us long. We dusty pilgrims shunned the
spick-and-span society of summer frocks and immaculate blazers,
and fared forth up the steep paths of Lee Mount on to the highroad
for the distance of a mile, when we walked down Smugglers’ Lane to
the sea again, where the Parson and Clerk stand at the extremity of
a precipitous headland—the Parson on the face of the cliff, the Clerk
cooling his heels in the water. For the recognition of the faces
supposed to be seen on the sandstone rock, the Eye of Faith is
imperative: but many folk possess that.
LEE MOUNT, DAWLISH.
 XXXV.
There is a legend accounting for this petrified couple. It seems
that the vicar of a neighbouring parish had business with his bishop
at the Palace of Exeter. He set out late in the afternoon, on
horseback, for the city, accompanied by the parish clerk, and, a
storm coming on, they promptly lost their way in the mist and rain;
the incessant flashes of lightning, brilliant as they were, would not
have sufficed for them to regain their road, even had their horses
been less terrified. The vicar was speedily drenched to the skin.
“Damme,” says he, “there’s not a soul at hand of whom to inquire
our way in this misbegotten wilderness. I’d take the devil himself for
a guide if he were here.”
No sooner had the vicar uttered this profane sentiment, than
they heard, above the howling of the storm, the clattering sound of
a horse’s hoofs, and a prolonged flash of lightning showed them an
old gentleman, clad in sombre garments, cantering past on his mare.
The clerk hailed him, and he drew rein.
“I suspect, sir,” said he, addressing himself to the vicar, “you
have lost your way. Can I be of any service to you? If so, pray
command me, for it is ill wandering abroad on such a wild night.”
“Sir,” said the vicar, who was, indeed, no mealy-mouthed man,
for all his holy office, “we have lost our road, and are wet through,”
adding, “this is the most damnable night that ever I have had the ill
fortune to travel in.”
“You may well say that,” rejoined the old gentleman briskly, with
a complacent smile; “but allow me to put you in the right way.”
 In scarcely five minutes from their encounter, the party drew rein
before a cosy inn. The vicar, the clerk, and their guide dismounted,
and sending their riding cloaks to the kitchen fire to dry, sat down to
a bowl of punch. They caroused until a late hour, while the storm
raged unceasingly without.
At length the vicar rose, saying, “Storm or no storm, he must be
going, for he had important business that demanded his presence at
Exeter early the following morning.”
“Well,” said the old gentleman, “if you are so resolved, I will
accompany you, for I make no doubt that without my company you
would soon go astray again. Fortunately my way runs with your
own.”
The three set out again, and rode some distance, until they
heard the roar of the sea even above the shrieking of the gale, and
felt the flecks of sea-foam upon their cheeks.
“Man,” said the vicar, in a rage, as a more than usually vivid flash
of lightning showed them to be upon the verge of a tall cliff, “do you
know what you are doing—bringing us to these fearful rocks?”
“Yes,” replied the stranger, “this is my road,” and he laid his hand
upon the vicar’s shoulder.
“Take your hand off,” yelled the vicar, “it’s devilish hot,” as indeed
it must have been, for where the old man’s hand had been placed
there rose up a thin curl of smoke from scorched cloth.
“Hot is it?” inquired the old gentleman mildly, “perhaps I am
slightly feverish.”
 SEA WALL, TEIGNMOUTH.

But the vicar had perceived into what terrible company he had
fallen, and shouting to the clerk, he lashed his horse furiously. But,
no matter how hard he or the clerk plied their whips, not an inch
would the horses budge. The winds changed into demoniacal
shouts; troops of fiends, warlocks, and witches gathered round,
shrieking, as the pair sank down into the face of the cliff, and a
horrid peal of mocking laughter was the last thing they heard on
earth.
The next morning, when the farmer’s men came down to the
sands with their carts for the seaweed thrown up by the storm over
night, they were astonished at beholding a face in the cliff’s
overhead, and, standing out in the sea, crowned with screaming
cormorants, and buffeted by the heavy waves, a tall pillar of rock
which had not been there before.
I take this moving story as a warning to parish clubs to be
careful in the selection of their vicars.
 XXXVI.
From here it is a two miles’ walk along the sea-wall into
Teignmouth. Time and again, in winter storms, hundreds of feet of
massive masonry have been torn down, and often carried away
bodily, by the sea, and on two or three occasions great landslips
have occurred from the soaring red-sandstone cliffs overlooking the
railway. Railway engineering here is no play.
“Teignmouth” (says my Bædeker) “is a large watering-place,
prettily situated at the mouth of the Teign.” Thus far the guide-book.
It is a peculiar feature of this class of literature that information is
hurled at one’s head in stodgy lumps, in which are embedded
measurements and statistics, enclosed in brackets sprinkled over the
pages, like—like currants in a penny bun. Yet there are misguided
folk who read guide-books continuously: these are people with an
insatiable rage for general information, who spout dates at every
turn.

RAILWAY AND SEA-WALL, NIGHT.

 From East Cliff, Teignmouth

But Teignmouth may well be termed a watering-place, if one

may take the fact of its being partly surrounded by water as a valid
claim to that obscure appellation, although I wot of places bearing it
which are like unto the great Sahara for dryness.
The town, which ranks next after Torquay in size, is continually
growing, and climbing up the hillsides. They have built in every
direction; the tunnels that were used to render its railway station
even as the stations of the Metropolitan Railway for gloom have
been opened out; the pier has burst into a dreadful variegated rash
of advertisements, and the bathing-machines are blatant with the
name of a certain Pill.
But with the growth of the town, the local rates, say the
ratepayers, with doleful intonation, keep pace, and the ambition of
the local governing body accompanies the onward march, and tends
to o’erleap itself in matters of public improvements.
There is the market-house for the pointing of an example. I well
remember the cavernous ramshackle old place that stood here years
ago, a dim and dismal hole, where the blinking, owl-like stall-holders
sold beans by the hundred and (so say the malicious) peas by the
dozen. The Local Board pulled it down, which was, by itself, a well-
advised action; but when there presently arose on its site another
building devoted to the same purpose, wiseacres shook their heads
and prophesied evil things.
 When Teignmouth sages foretold these things, they displayed a
foresight that would not have disgraced the Delphic Oracle; for,
although the new market was in every way adapted to modern
needs, yet in a short while its complete failure, commercially, was
sufficiently demonstrated, and, to this day, he who would be alone
and shun his fellow-men, betakes himself to the market, and broods
there undisturbed. You may wander in the by-lanes of the
countryside, or sit upon the hardly accessible rocks beyond the Ness,
but, even then, you shall not be so secure from human gaze or so
unutterably lonely as in the “market.” Yet the business of the town
has not decayed; neither, I suspect, are the tradesfolk less
prosperous than of yore: the market simply was not wanted.

THE TEIGN.

When we were at Teignmouth we became of a mildly inquiring

turn of mind, and wandered along the sands to where the Teign
flows out, across the sandy shifting bar, into the sea. Across the
wide estuary is the fishing-village of Shaldon, now growing out of all
knowledge, and the bold red front of the Ness, crowned with firs,
confronting the waves.
 TEIGNMOUTH HARBOUR.

Round here by the sand spit, past the battery pour rire, is the
little lighthouse, and behind it the lifeboat-house, with its window
illuminated at night, where the barometer and weather-chart are
anxiously scanned in the summer months by eager visitors. For the
proverbial inconstancy of the weather is very marked here. One may
stand looking up the Teign in fine weather, to where the Dartmoor
hills loom grey in the distance, and presently see the rain-clouds
gather and sweep swiftly down the valley, blotting out the landscape
with driving mist; and yet, in a little while, it shall be all bright again
with sunshine. It is, indeed, not often that a day in Devon is entirely
hopeless, for clouds disperse frequently as quickly as they come. It
is to this moist climate that softly beautiful Devonshire owes its fair
name.
Behind the lifeboat-house is the harbour, where is to be found
the real life of the place, as distinguished from that entirely different
existence lived in summer months on the sands, the pier, or the Den,
that wide lawn fronting the sea.
Teignmouth, in fact, is not merely a summer resort. It has a
select and proper society, which is nothing if not dignified and
stately, Teignmouth society being composed of retired half-pay
officers and their families, with slim purses and inflated pride—a
curious and exceptional combination. The attitude of this circle is
one prolonged sniff.
 A small shipping trade, and a fairly commodious harbour to
accommodate it, together with quays and queer waterside inns and
storehouses and a custom-house, are livelier attributes of the town.
Also, there are sail-lofts and seafaring smells, and a shipbuilding
yard, where I remember, years ago, to have seen a vessel built.
Boats there are, and a yacht or two anchored out in the channel, a
cluster of ships buoyed out in deep water, and at ebb tide, two or
three big vessels heeled over in the ooze. There is a very nautical
flavour, figurative and realistic, about the harbour, and an ancient
and fish-like smell about the jetty where the fisher-boats land their
catches. Hereabouts, in the sunshine, sit rows of amphibious
loungers, who smoke, chew tobacco, and curse the livelong day—
such of them as have not been converted at the Gospel Hall yonder.
Up the river, beyond the harbour and the clustering masts, is the
bridge. A remarkable bridge this, built of wood in the first years of
the present century, with thirty-four arches, and (to descend to the
particularity of the guide-book) a total length of 1670 feet.
Shaldon is reached by it, and the Torquay road. The ferry-boats
from the harbour take passengers across for the same toll of a
penny either way. We went across by boat, and instead of taking the
highroad for Torquay, climbed round under the Ness, among the
fallen rocks and seaweed-slippery boulders by the sea.
 XXXVII.
I knew an artist once who climbed round by these jagged rocks,
and slipped down between two of them and sprained his ankle, just
as they do in the penny novelettes. But there the resemblance
ceased. The artists in the novelettes are always handsome and of a
god-like grace, and they wear moustaches of a delightfully silken
texture, and velveteen coats, and talk pretty, like nothing or no one
ever did talk. This fellow, to the contrary, was as ugly a beggar as
one might meet in a long day’s march, and he was as awkward as a
duck out of water, and instead of a velveteen coat he wore a blazer
of the most inartistic and thrilling combinations of coloured stripes.
He said velveteen coats were all “bally rot,” which shows how vulgar
he could be on occasion. No artist in the novelettes ever said “bally
rot,” I’m sure.
Also, he smoked tobacco of the rankest and most objectionable
kind, and he never wore a moustache at all, and shaved only once a
week, so that no self-respecting girl was ever known to allow herself
to be kissed by him more than once. I can’t understand how all this
could be: it doesn’t resemble the novelettes one little bit. But this
artist was like the artists in the tales in one particular; he painted
superlatively, as thoroughly, indeed, as he swore and drank, and that
is saying a great deal.
Well, as I was saying, he slipped down between two rocks and
sprained his ankle. He didn’t, like those (I fear) apocryphal artists in
the stories, lie there gracefully and quote Shakespeare and Dr. Watts
about it, until two lovely heiresses to untold millions came along in a
boat and rescued him from the rising tide, and fell in love with him
and married the fellow (one of them, I mean; the other—in the
stories—dies of a broken heart).
No! He lay there and swore dreadfully, until some fishermen
came along and refused to take him off in their boat until he had
paid them a sov., money down, when he swore (if possible) more
dreadfully than before. No beautiful girls came and rescued him at
all; only one old maid passed, who, thinking he was drunk, gave him
a tract, warned him against the evils of intemperance, and went
away, shocked at the “language” he used.
This is a very sad and unromantic episode, I know, but things do
fall out thus in real life. If this simple story should prove of any use
to realistic novelists, I’m sure I should be only too proud for them to
use it.
Meanwhile, let us away to Torquay. Here a steep and rugged
path, leading up the face of the cliff, brings us to Labrador. Every
visitor to Teignmouth goes also to Labrador, a name not usually
coupled with sunshine and sparkling sea, al fresco teas, and roses at
a penny a piece. He was a romantic mercantile Jack, who, retiring
from the Newfoundland and North American seas, laid out his
precarious little estate and built this little house on it, and named his
domain after an inhospitable coast. He has voyaged long since into
the Unknown, and his romance has gone with him, for the place is
now but a superior sort of tea-garden, where you drink your tea and
eat your cream and strawberries in the open-air arbours and the
society of innumerable centipedes and spiders.
You cannot fare farther along the coast-line, just here, without
becoming bedevilled amid fallen rocks and rising tides; and to climb
the cliffs at a venture might haply result in being hung up on some
impracticable ledge, whence advance or retreat would be alike
impossible. So we climbed the usual, though precipitous, path past
Labrador on to the cliff-top, and from thence across ruddy fields to
the dusty highway, along which, to our surprise, came two Italians
with a piano-organ. O Herrick!
 The minstrels from the town are gone—
On Devon roads you’ll find ’em;
They play “Ta-ra,” “He’s Got ’em On”
(Those cursed tunes), and grind ’em,
Both day and night, in curly chords,
On organs called “piano;”
They hail, these handle-turning hordes,
From Tiber, or the Arno.

To “Get Your Hair Cut” they incite,

In thrilling shakes and catches,
With notes that thunder day and night;
They grind ’em forth in batches.
“’Ow you’d like ’Awkins for your other name,”
They play “expressione”—
Away! you errant sons of song,
To home, and—macaroni.

“Piano” do they call the things?

I wish they were so, really.
“Fortissimo,” their torture rings—
I’d like to smash ’em, dearly.
Tommaso from Bologna hails;
Paolo from Napoli;
Their organ, with its trills and wails,
Proceeds from place unholy.

“Would the signori lika ze musique?” and, suiting the action to

the word, the chief brigand gave the organ-handle a turn. Out
leaped the initial bars of—yes, let it be named—“Ta-ra-ra Boom de
Ay.” The signori would not like any; please to go away. “What,” asked
the Wreck, “is the Italian for ‘take your hook?’” But I didn’t know,
and so, in default, to cut matters short, we took ours.
There was no escaping the ubiquitous tune that was our “only
wear” in matters musical last year. The very trains that rattled one
down to the sounding sea pounded it out to the alert ear as they ran
along the metals; the fly-man, who drove you at a crawling pace to
your “digs.,” whistled it; and your landlady’s daughter (“a dear good
girl, sir, an’ clever at ’er music, which she takes after me in, though I
ses it as shouldn’t. Play the gentleman something, there’s a love”)
thumped it out unmercifully. Seaside landladies, by the way, have
always, by some strange dispensation of Providence, three things
apparently inseparable from their race—a daughter, a piano, and a
sea-view. The daughter plays on the piano, and the landlady harps
upon the view—both musical, you see. Most, also, have “seen better
days,” and as it usually rains when I visit those yellow sands, the
statement admits of no dispute.
 XXXVIII.
The coast here is serrated with tiny bays, from which run valleys,
called in Devonshire “coombes,” or “combes,” variously. Of these,
Watcombe is perhaps best known. Sometimes the combe has
become a town, as at Babbacombe.
Maidencombe is one of the smallest and prettiest of those deep
and narrow valleys, clothed with a rich vegetation, and thickly
wooded with giant elms, retired, and, what Devonshire folk call “loo,”
or “lew,” that is, sheltered. There is, indeed, a secluded parish in
Devon to whose name this commendatory adjective is prefixed—Lew
Trenchard, to wit—noteworthy also as being the home of that
strenuous author, the Rev. Sabine Baring-Gould. On the other hand,
there is yet another Lew in Devon—North Lew—in the northern part
of the county, a wild, stormy, bleak, misbegotten place, whose name
was probably conferred in derision by some deluded inhabitant; it is
the place where, according to the local saying, the devil died of the
cold!
 MAIDENCOMBE.

Watcombe we passed, with its towering red rocks rising sheer

out of the coombe; and, after toiling up hill and down dale, arrived
at Babbacombe, a fairy settlement of villas adjoining Torquay’s
suburb of Marychurch. Red sandstone rocks give place to lofty
limestone cliffs, clothed in luxuriant foliage, and skirted about their
base with beaches of rounded limestone pebbles of every size,
smoothed and polished by constant friction of the water.
We took tea at the Carey Arms, upon the lawn that gives on the
water; and admired, with the fleeting tourist’s regretful admiration,
those blood-red and milk-white cliffs, and that foreshore of the
whitest, hugest, and hardest marbles, and that sea of the most
bewitching and impossible light-blue—impossible, that is to say, from
the point of view of he or she who would transfer it to canvas—and
bewildered brush-wielders are here the commonest objects of the
seashore. Not the least of the things for which Torquay and