Men don't run, my boy!'" Arkwright paused, and drew a long breath.

He did not look at the girl in the opposite chair.

If he had looked he would have seen a face transfigured.
"Well," he resumed, "I never forgot that tiger skin, nor what it stood for, after that day when Uncle Ben thrust my hand into its hideous, but harmless, red mouth.

Even as a kid I began, then, to try--not to run.
I've tried ever since But to-day--I did run." Arkwright's voice had been getting lower and lower.

The last three words would have been almost inaudible to ears less sensitively alert than were Alice Greggory's.