"No—no," shrieked Tobias, "I am not mad! I am not mad!"
A man held out his arms to stop him, but Tobias dashed past him like a flash of lightning, and was off again.
"Stop him!" cried twenty voices. "Stop thief!" shouted some who could not conceive that anybody was to be stopped on any other account.
"No, no," gasped Tobias, as he flew onwards—"not mad, not mad!"
The Flight Of Tobias From Peckham Mad-House.
His feet failed him. He reeled a few more paces like a drunken man, and then fell heavily upon some stone steps, where he lay bathed in perspiration. Blood too gushed from his mouth. A gentleman's horse was standing at the door, and the man came out to mount him at that moment, and he saw the rapidly collecting crowd. With the reins of his steed in his hand, he pushed his way through the mob, saying—
"What is it? what is it?"
"A mad boy, sir," said some. "Only look at him. Did you ever see the like. He looks as if he had run a hundred miles."
"Good God!" cried the gentleman. "It is he! It is he!"