oment no more the man who crammed
Hebrew verbs in the confines of that small, whitewashed room at the
theological school than as though born of a different mother. He was
more like that Wilson who in the days of Miles Standish was thought to
be possessed of devils for the fierceness with which he fought
Indians. It would have taken a half dozen strong men to stop him, and
no one ventured to do more than strike at him.

Once he was free of them, he started on, hoping to get across Park
Street and into the Common. But the pack was instantly at his heels
again after the manner of their kind. He glanced about him baffled,
realizing that with the increasing excitement his chances of pulling
clear of them lessened. He dreaded the arrival of the police--that
would mean questioning, and he could give no satisfactory explanation
of his condition. To tell the truth would be to incriminate himself,
compromise the girl, and bring about no end of a complication. He
turned sharply and made up the hill at a run. He was a grotesque
enough figure with the long robe streaming at his heels, his head
surmounted by the fantastic turban, and his face roughened with two
days' beard, but he made something of a pathetic appeal, too. He was
putting up a good fight. It took only half an eye to see that he was
running on his nerve and that in his eagerness to get clear, there was
nothing of cowardice. Even now there was not one of the rabble who
dared come within fighting distance of him. It was the harrying they
enjoyed--the sight of a man tormented. A policeman elbowed his way
through the crowd and instead of clubbing back the aggressors, pushed
on to the young man who was tottering near his finish.

Wilson saw him. He gave one last hurried look about on the chance of
finding some loophole of escape from that which was worse than the
crowd. His eyes fell upon the face of a young man in an automobile
which was moving slowly up the hill. It took the latter but a glance
to see that Wilson was a gentleman hard pushed. The appeal in the eyes
was enough. He ordered the machine stopped and threw open the door. As
Wilson reached it, he leaned forward and grasped his shoulders,
dragging him in. Then the driver threw back his lever and the machine
leaped forward like an unleashed dog. The officer ordered them to
stop, but they skimmed on up the hill and turning to the left found
Beacon Street a straight path before them.

"Narrow squeak that time, old