as the world in general went, in the twinkling of an eye. "The

New Accelerator--" I began, but Gibberne interrupted me.



"There's that infernal old woman!" he said.



"What old woman?"



"Lives next door to me," said Gibberne. "Has a lapdog that yaps.

Gods! The temptation is strong!"



There is something very boyish and impulsive about Gibberne at times.

Before I could expostulate with him he had dashed forward, snatched

the unfortunate animal out of visible existence, and was running

violently with it towards the cliff of the Leas. It was most

extraordinary. The little brute, you know, didn't bark or wriggle or

make the slightest sign of vitality. It kept quite stiffly in an

attitude of somnolent repose, and Gibberne held it by the neck. It

was like running about with a dog of wood. "Gibberne," I cried, "put

it down!" Then I said something else. "If you run like that,

Gibberne," I cried, "you'll set your clothes on fire. Your linen

trousers are going brown as it is!"



He clapped his hand on his thigh and stood hesitating on the verge.

"Gibberne," I cried, coming up, "put it down. This heat is too much!

It's our running so! Two or three miles a second! Friction of the air!"



"What?" he said, glancing at the dog.



"Friction of the air," I shouted. "Friction of the air. Going too

fast. Like meteorites and things. Too hot. And, Gibberne! Gibberne!

I'm all over pricking and a sort of perspiration. You can see people

stirring slightly. I believe the stuff's working off! Put that dog

down."



"Eh?" he said.



"It's working off," I repeated. "We're too hot and the stuff's

working off! I'm wet through."



He stared at me. Then at the band, the wheezy rattle of whose

performance was certainly going faster. Then with a tremendous sweep

of the arm he hurled the dog away from him and it went spinning

upward, still inanimate, and hung at last over the grouped parasols

of a knot of chattering people. Gibberne was gripping my elbow.

"By Jove!" he cried. "I believe--it is! A sort of hot pricking

and--yes. That man's moving his pocket-handkerchief! Perceptibly.

We must get out of this sharp."



But we could not get out of it sharply enough. Luckily, perhaps!

For we might have run, and if we had run we should, I believe,



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