He rapidly reconsiders the chances.
"This fellow does not know the turns," he thinks, "or he would have taken
Cushman Avenue, and then I should have lost him."
This is in his favor. On the other hand, Mr. Smithers's action is impeded
by his heavy overcoat and rubber boots, and he knows that the pursued is
unincumbered in all his movements.
It is a fierce, desperate struggle, that mad race down Leverett Street, at
one o'clock on Sunday morning.
At each corner, the street-lamps throw a dull red haze around, revealing
the fugitive's slender form as he rushes wildly through. Another moment,
and the friendly fog shelters and conceals him from view.
Breathless, panting, sobbing, he ere long is forced to relax his speed. The
policeman, who has held his best energies in reserve, now puts forth his
utmost strength.
Presently he gains upon the runaway so that he can detect the white feet
pattering along the red bricks, rising and falling quite noiselessly. He
ejects imprecations upon his own stout boots, which not only fail to fasten
themselves firmly to the slippery pavements, but continually betray by
their noisy splashing his exact position.
As they pass the next lamp, Mr. Smithers sees plainly enough that the end
is near. The fugitive touches the ground with only the balls of his feet,
as if each step were torture, and expels his breath with unceasing
violence. He does not gasp or pant,--he groans.
Just at the bend in Leverett Street, leading to the bridge, there is a dark
and half-hidden aperture among the ill-assorted houses.
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