he fled, into the street. A voice called out peremptorily to him to
stop, but he went on all the faster, swift as a hare. He doubled and
circled through this street and that until at last he came out into a
broad, brilliant thoroughfare. An iron-pillared railway reared itself
skyward and trains clamored past. Bloomsbury: millions of years and
miles away! He would wake up presently, with the sunlight (when it
shone) pouring into his room, and the bright geraniums on the outside
window-sill bidding him good morning.

He was on the point of rushing up the station stairway, when he espied
a cab at the far corner. A replica of a London cab, something which
smacked of home; he could have hugged for sheer joy the bleary-eyed
cabby who touched his rusty high hat.

"Free?"

"Free 's th' air, bo. Where to?"

"Pier 60, White Star Line. How much?"--quite his old-time self again.

"Two dollars,"--promptly.

"All right. And hurry!" Thomas climbed in. He was safe.

As the crow flies it was less than a ten-minutes' jog from that corner
to Pier 60. Thomas had not gone far; he had merely covered a good deal
of ground. Cabby drove about for three-quarters of an hour and then
drew up before the pier.

Back to his cabin once more, weak as a swimmer who had breasted a