Philander has shown remarkable traits upon this night of nights, traits
which Doctor Chicago never suspected he possessed. He now proves that,
in addition to these other commendable qualities, he has wonderful
presence of mind, and that no sudden emergency can stupefy his senses.

Just as soon as the outcry is heard, he draws the small, cimeter-shaped
paper-knife, which he claimed would make a serviceable weapon.

At the same time he cries out:

"We're in for it, John, my boy! Don't be too proud to run. Legs, do your
duty!"

With which remark Philander starts his lower extremities into action,
turning his head to make sure that his companion has not hesitated to
follow.

If the professor is a small man, he has the faculty for getting over
ground at quite an astonishing rate of speed. His short legs fairly
twinkle as they measure off the yards; and, given a fair show, he would
lead any ordinary runner a race.

The darkness, the uneven street, and his unfamiliarity with his
surroundings, are all against him now, so that he cannot do himself
justice.

Suddenly he misses his companion. John was close beside him ten seconds
before--John, who is a sprinter from athletic education, and who could
have distanced the professor with only half an effort had he wished, but
who moderated his speed to conform with that of his less favored friend.