“Perhaps I may weary him out,” thought the Doctor to himself: “or if I lead him into the open country I shall perhaps be able to give him the slip. Otherwise we must fight it out in some place where no interruption need be dreaded.”
Influenced by these ideas, Jack Rily resumed his wanderings, Vitriol Bob still remaining by his side like the ghost of some murdered victim.
They proceeded towards the Elephant and Castle; and on reaching that celebrated tavern, they once more refreshed themselves with beer, as the establishment was still open in consequence of some parochial entertainment that was given there on that particular evening.
On issuing from the house, the two men proceeded along the Kent Road.
Nearly an hour had now elapsed since they had last exchanged a word; for the feeling of desperate irritation was growing stronger and stronger on the part of Jack Rily—while Vitriol Bob was becoming impatient of this delay in the gratification of his implacable vengeance.
But delight filled the soul of the latter when he found that his companion was taking a direction that led into the open country; and, breaking the long silence which had prevailed, he said tauntingly, “You are getting tired, Jack.”
“Not a bit,” replied the Doctor, assuming a cheerful tone.
“Oh! yes—you are, old feller,” exclaimed Vitriol Bob: “you drag your feet along as if you was.”
“I could walk all night without being wearied so much as you are now,” returned the Doctor: and, thus speaking, he mended his pace.
“I never felt less tired than I am at present, Jack,” said Vitriol Bob: “but you are failing in spite of this pretended briskness. You can’t keep it up.”