His heart was
beating thickly, his breath came unevenly, and the snow was blinding,
but there was no thought of stopping. He bumped into a man coming
toward him, and two hats flew in the air and on the pavement, but he
went on. The hat did not matter, only Noodles mattered, and Noodles
could no longer be seen. Down the street, around first one corner and
then another, he kept on in fierce pursuit for some moments; then,
finding breathing difficult, he paused and leaned against the step
railing of a high porch, to better get his bearings. Disappointment
and fury were overmastering him. It was impossible and absurd to have
within one's grasp what one had been looking for all day and part of
two nights, and have it slip away like that.
"Come on. No use--that--" The policeman's voice was surly. "If you'll
walk quiet I won't ring up. If you don't you'll get a free ride. Come
on."
"Come on?" Van Landing put his hand to his head. His hat was gone. He
looked down at his feet. They were soaking wet. His overcoat was
glazed with a coating of fine particles of ice, and his hands were
trembling.
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