With his hooded great-coat on his back, his valise
in his hand, his black wig adjusted, and footing it on the ice with
a sort of sober doggedness of manner, my enemy was changed almost
beyond recognition: changed in everything but a certain dry,
polemical, pedantic air, that spoke of a sedentary occupation and
high stools. I observed, too, that his valise was heavy; and,
putting this and that together, hit upon a plan.
'A seasonable night, sir,' said I. 'What do you say to a bit of
running? The frost has me by the toes.'
'With all the pleasure in life,' says he.
His voice seemed well assured, which pleased me little. However,
there was nothing else to try, except violence, for which it would
always be too soon. I took to my heels accordingly, he after me;
and for some time the slapping of our feet on the hard road might
have been heard a mile away. He had started a pace behind me, and
he finished in the same position. For all his extra years and the
weight of his valise, he had not lost a hair's breadth. The devil
might race him for me--I had enough of it!
And, besides, to run so fast was contrary to my interests. We
could not run long without arriving somewhere. At any moment we
might turn a corner and find ourselves at the lodge-gate of some
Squire Merton, in the midst of a village whose constable was sober,
or in the hands of a patrol.
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