the unfortunate animal out of visible existence, and was running
violently with it towards the cliff of the Leas. It was most
extraordinary. The little brute, you know, didn't bark or wriggle or
make the slightest sign of vitality. It kept quite stiffly in an
attitude of somnolent repose, and Gibberne held it by the neck. It
was like running about with a dog of wood. "Gibberne," I cried, "put
it down!" Then I said something else. "If you run like that,
Gibberne," I cried, "you'll set your clothes on fire. Your linen
trousers are going brown as it is!"

He clapped his hand on his thigh and stood hesitating on the verge.
"Gibberne," I cried, coming up, "put it down. This heat is too much!
It's our running so! Two or three miles a second! Friction of the air!"

"What?" he said, glancing at the dog.

"Friction of the air," I shouted. "Friction of the air. Going too
fast. Like meteorites and things. Too hot. And, Gibberne! Gibberne!
I'm all over pricking and a sort of perspiration. You can see people
stirring slightly. I believe the stuff's working off! Put that dog
down."

"Eh?" he said.

"It's working off," I repeated. "We're too hot and the stuff's
working off! I'm wet through."

He stared at me. Then at the band, the wheezy rattle of whose
performance was certainly going faster. Then with a tremendous sweep
of the arm he hurled the dog away from him and it went spinning