The Tale of the Wandering Book-Case
covered when the clatter of wheels made me look behind. A buggy was fairly careening down the long hill, the horse at a gallop. Leaning far over the dashboard and plying a whip was none other than Pillsover, red in the face, shouting like a madman. I give you my word I hardly knew the man. He had thrown prudence and self-respect to the winds. He had forsaken his ambush. The capture of the Royal Whisker had already obsessed him. Apparently he had no thought for the future. The lust of the chase had so gripped him that he was ready to fight for the prize. I myself had become keyed up to such a desperate state of mind that I could scarcely blame him.
When he recognized me he uttered a yell that curdled my blood, and urged his poor beast with more fury than before. I drew my whip and slashed my willing steed. I could not let Pillsover beat me to the second book-case. It was a break-neck race of almost three miles over a rock-strewn country road, up hill and down. I could only pray that my rig would hold together, as we bounded and caromed
