Raffles,
however, was in first-class training from first-class cricket, and
he had no mercy on Nab or me. But the master himself was an old
Oxford miler, who could still bear it better than I; nay, as I
flagged and stumbled, I heard him pounding steadily behind.
"Come on, come on, or he'll do us!" cried Raffles shrilly over his
shoulder; and a gruff sardonic laugh came back over mine. It was
pearly morning now, but we had run into a shallow mist that took me
by the throat and stabbed me to the lungs. I coughed and coughed,
and stumbled in my stride, until down I went, less by accident than
to get it over, and so lay headlong in my tracks. And old Nab dealt
me a verbal kick as he passed.
"You beast!" he growled, as I have known him growl it in form.
But Raffles himself had abandoned the flight on hearing my downfall,
and I was on hands and knees just in time to see the meeting between
him and old Nab. And there stood Raffles in the silvery mist,
laughing with his whole light heart, leaning back to get the full
flavor of his mirth; and, nearer me, sturdy old Nab, dour and grim,
with beads of dew on the hoary beard that had been lamp-black in our
time.
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