And straight along the road he comes rushing with the speed of a torpedo.
Shireen doesn’t lose her presence of mind. Not a bit of it. She measures the distance with a glance from Uncle Ben’s railing, and calculates to the tenth part of a second the time it will take her to reach it.
She wants to make that dog believe that he is sure of her, so that she may, in triumph and safety, enjoy his chagrin and disappointment all the more.
On he comes, on and on.
Shireen pretends she doesn’t see him.
He is within two yards of her. Oh! he has caught her! No, he hasn’t! One dart, one dive, and she is safe on the other side of Ben’s friendly railing.
He—Danger—can’t get through.
Only just his nose, and no more.
And what a fool he was to stick that between the rails. Shireen springs round like fire from flint.
“Fuss! Fut!”