He had a start of not more than twenty yards, but he was a good runner, and it was in his favor that his pursuers had come up at a certain speed, while he started fresh after a rest.  He squared his shoulders, opened his mouth wide for a long race, and ran as men run for their lives.

In the silent night Robinson’s highlows might have been heard half a mile off clattering along the hard road.  Pit pit pit pat! came two pair of dress-boots after him.  Robinson heard the sound with a thrill of fear:  “They in their pumps and I in boots,” thought he, and his pursuers heard the hunted one groan, and redoubled their efforts as dogs when the stag begins to sob.

He had scarce run a hundred yards with his ears laid back like a hare’s, when he could not help thinking the horrible pit pit pit got nearer; he listened with agonized keenness as he ran, and so fine did his danger make his ear that he could tell the exact position of his pursuers.  A cold sweat crept over him as he felt they had both gained ten yards out of the twenty on him; then he distinctly felt one pursuer gain upon the other, and this one’s pit pit pit crept nearer and nearer, an inch every three or four yards; the other held his own—­no more—­no less.

At last so near crept No. 1 that Robinson felt his hot breath at his ear.  He clinched his teeth and gave a desperate spurt, and put four or five yards between them; he could have measured the ground gained by the pit pit pat.  But the pursuer put on a spurt, and reduced the distance by half.

“I may as well give in,” thought the hunted one—­but at that moment came a gleam of hope; this pursuer began suddenly to pant very loud.  He had clinched his teeth to gain the twenty yards; he had gained them but had lost his wind.  Robinson heard this, and feared him no longer, and in fact after one or two more puffs came one despairing snort, and No. 1 pulled up dead short, thoroughly blown.

As No. 2 passed him, he just panted out

“Won’t catch him.”

“Won’t I!” ejaculated No 2, expelling the words rather than uttering them.

Klopetee klop, klopetee klop, klopetee, klopetee, klopetee klop.

Pit pat, pit pat, pit pat pat, pit pit pat.  Ten yards apart, no more no less.

          Nor nearer might the dog attain,
          Nor farther might the quarry strain.

“They have done me between them, thought poor Robinson.  “I could have run from either singly, but one blows me, and then the other runs me down.  I can get out of it by fighting perhaps, but then there will be another crime.”

Robinson now began to pant audibly, and finding he could not shake the hunter off, he with some reluctance prepared another game.