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He would not have stopped then, for anything less necessary than

breath, it being a spectral sort of race that he ran, and one

highly desirable to get to the end of. He had a strong idea that

the coffin he had seen was running after him; and, pictured as

hopping on behind him, bolt upright, upon its narrow end, always

on the point of overtaking him and hopping on at his

side--perhaps taking his arm--it was a pursuer to shun. It was an

inconsistent and ubiquitous fiend too, for, while it was making

the whole night behind him dreadful, he darted out into the

roadway to avoid dark alleys, fearful of its coming hopping out

of them like a dropsical boy's kite without tail and wings. It

hid in doorways too, rubbing its horrible shoulders against

doors, and drawing them up to its ears, as if it were laughing.

It got into shadows on the road, and lay cunningly on its back to

trip him up.