Of breath in the ordinary sense
breath, breathed automatically--he had none. He had only gasps to
feed his straining lungs, and his half-trot, which had long since
become a trot, was changed for a lope when Mr. Blakely reached
his own best burst of speed.
And now people stared at the flying three. The gait of Margaret
and Mr. Blakely could be called a walk only by courtesy, while
Penrod's was becoming a kind of blind scamper. At times he
zigzagged; other times, he fell behind, wabbling. Anon, with
elbows flopping and his face sculptured like an antique mask, he
would actually forge ahead, and then carom from one to the other
of his companions as he fell back again.
Thus the trio sped through the coming of autumn dusk, outflying
the fallen leaves that tumbled upon the wind. And still Penrod
held to the task that he had set himself. The street lamps
flickered into life, but on and on Claude Blakely led the lady,
and on and on reeled the grim Penrod. Never once was he so far
from them that they could have exchanged a word unchaperoned by
his throbbing ear.
"OH!" Margaret cried, and, halting suddenly, she draped herself
about a lamp-post like a strip of bunting.
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