Terence O'Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
himself began to run, cursing his hotheadedness for the predicament into which it had led him.
A sleepy cabby woke up, startled by the unusual disturbance, and added his yelps to those of the policeman and the much-abused Frenchman. Others joined in the chorus. A belated street gamin shrieked with joy, and attached himself to the chase. His example was followed by others. O'Rourke began to be very, very regretful for his precipitancy.
He doubled and turned into the Champs Elysées, hounded by a growing, howling mob. It seemed to him that men sprang from the earth itself to help run him down; and the sensation was most unpleasant. He began to sprint madly, his inverness napping behind him like the wings of some huge, misshapen bird of night. He dug elbows in ribs, clenched his teeth, and threw back his head, careful to keep as much as possible in the shadows.
And the mob grew, whooping joyously with interest; from their cries it seemed that they considered O'Rourke an escaping criminal of note.
The Irishman kept himself ever on the alert for some chance of escape—any subterfuge to throw the pursuit off his track; but none appeared. He realized that he was gaining by sheer fleetness of foot, but not for a moment did he imagine that by swiftness he might distance the mob. For a rabble is always fresh, never tiring; the places of those who drop out, exhausted and breathless, are instantly filled by fresh and willing recruits. And in the end the mob gets at the throat of its quarry—if the running be in the open.
O'Rourke knew this entirely too well for the peace of his own mind; therefore, he grasped avidly at the first chance that presented itself, heedless of its consequences.
[ 24 ]
