As they pass the next lamp, Mr. Smithers sees plainly enough that the end
is near. The fugitive touches the ground with only the balls of his feet,
as if each step were torture, and expels his breath with unceasing
violence. He does not gasp or pant,--he groans.

Just at the bend in Leverett Street, leading to the bridge, there is a dark
and half-hidden aperture among the ill-assorted houses. Into this, as a
forlorn hope, the fugitive endeavors to fling himself. But the game is
up. Here, at last, he is overhauled by Mr. Smithers, who, dropping a heavy
hand upon his shoulder, whirls him violently to the ground. Having
accomplished this exploit with rare dexterity, he forthwith proceeds to set
the captive on his feet again, and to shake him about with sprightly vigor,
according to established usage.

Mr. Smithers next makes a rapid but close examination of his prize, who,
bewildered by the fall, stares vacantly around, and speaks no word. He was
a young man, apparently about twenty years old, with nothing peculiar in
appearance except an unseasonable deficiency in clothing. Coat, waistcoat,
trousers, boots, hat, had he none; shirt, drawers, and stockings made up
his scant raiment. Mr. Smithers set aside the suspicion of burglary, which
he had originally entertained, in favor of domestic disorder. The symptoms
did not, to his mind, point towards delirium tremens.

Suddenly recovering consciousness, the youth was seized with a fit of
trembling so violent that he with difficulty stood upright, and cried out
in piteous tones,--

"For God's sake, let me go! let me go!"