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.

Vandover obeyed.