All life was but a
struggle to keep from under those myriad spinning wheels that dashed so
close behind. Those were happiest who were farthest to the front. To lag
behind was peril; to fall was to perish, to be ridden down, to be beaten
to the dust, to be inexorably crushed and blotted out beneath that
myriad of spinning iron wheels. Geary looked up quickly and saw Vandover
standing in the doorway.
For the moment Geary did not recognize the gaunt, shambling figure with
the long hair and dirty beard, the greenish hat, and the streaked and
spotted coat, but when he did it was with a feeling of anger and
exasperation.
"Look here!" he cried, "don't you think you'd better knock before you
come in?"
Vandover raised a hand slowly as if in deprecation, and answered slowly
and with a feeble, tremulous voice, the voice of an old man: "I did
knock, Mister Geary; I didn't mean no offence." He sat down on the edge
of the nearest chair, looking vaguely and stupidly about on the floor,
moving his head instead of his eyes, repeating under his breath from
time to time, "No offence--no, sir--no offence!"
"Shut that door!" commanded Geary.
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