pause there or anywhere, unable to do anything
except to continue his hapless flight, poor meteor.

Round the block he went once more, and still no
chance at that empty stairway where, perhaps, he
thought, there might be succor and safety. Blood
was upon his side where Martin Pike's boot had
crashed, foam and blood hung upon his jaws and
lolling tongue. He ran desperately, keeping to
the middle of the street, and, not howling, set
himself despairingly to outstrip the Terror. The mob,
disdaining the sun superbly, pursued as closely as
it could, throwing bricks and rocks at him, striking
at him with clubs and sticks. Happy Fear,
playing "tic-tac-toe," right hand against left, in
his cell, heard the uproar, made out something of
what was happening, and, though unaware that
it was a friend whose life was sought, discovered a
similarity to his own case, and prayed to his dim
gods that the quarry might get away.

"MAD DOG!" they yelled. "MAD DOG!" And
there were some who cried, "JOE LOUDEN'S DOG!"
that being equally as exciting and explanatory.

Three times round, and still the little fugitive
maintained a lead. A gray-helmeted policeman,
a big fellow, had joined the pursuit. He had
children at home who might be playing in the street,
and the thought of what might happen to them