And all the time, "madmazelly," unheeding Collins's advice, stood calmly and silently waiting.
Onward came the runner, with the whole roaring pack in his wake, dodging in and out among the vehicles, "flooring" people who got in his way, scudding, dodging, leaping, like a fox hard pressed by the hounds--until, all of a moment he spied a break in the traffic, leapt through it, and--then there was mischief.

For Collins sprang at him like a cat, gripped two big, strong-as-iron hands on his shoulders, and had him tight and fast.
"Got you, you ass!" snapped he, with a short, crisp, self-satisfied laugh.

"None of your blessed squirming now.

Keep still.

You'll get out of your coffin, you bounder, as soon as out of my grip.