I'm one of those unfortunate duffers who have too much imagination—the kind who build their own chimeras and then run away from them. Jim is up to the neck in Mahatmas and Theosophy and Higher Thought and rot—writes letters worse than Alice. And do you, Jack, attend to your work, and mind you don't get into further mischief. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. And the hunter home from the hill. "I will, when I catch him, rely on it," rejoined Wild. As he passed along the main thoroughfare, he heard his own name pronounced, and found that it was a hawker, crying a penny history of his escapes.
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