At the corner of Wall Street he summoned courage to look over his shoulder. They might not be after him. If not, it would prove a false alarm, such as he had had before. But there they were—Jackman scrambling laboriously up the other side of Broad Street, and Flynn crossing it, picking his way among the vans and motor cars. Like a frightened rabbit, Teddy scurried on again, meaning to gain Nassau Street and somehow double on his tracks. CHAPTER XVI But Teddy did not double on his tracks in Nassau Street, for the reason that, in again looking over his shoulder, he saw that Flynn had taken one side of that thoroughfare and Jackman the other. They were burly men, who moved heavily, while he, in spite of his stocky build, glided in and out among the pedestrians with the agility of a squirrel. He was putting distance between himself and them, and five minutes’ leeway would be enough for him. All he needed was the space and privacy in which to shoot himself. At the corner of John Street he turned to the left and made toward Broadway. They would expect him to do this, his chief hope being that among the homing swarms they would already have lost sight of him. His mind was not working. He was not looking ahead, even over the few minutes he had still to live. All his instincts were fused into the fear of the hand of the law on his person. It was like Jennie’s terror of the hand of a man she didn’t love—a frenzy for physical sanctity stronger than the fear of death. At the same time, he couldn’t run the risk of being more noticeable than the majority of people going his way. As he pushed and dodged, a young man whom he had jostled called out, in ironic good humor, "Say, is the cop after you?" at which Teddy almost lost his head. He expected a crowd to gather, and three or four men to hold him by the arms till Jackman and Flynn came up. But nothing happened. The protesting young man was lost in the scramble, and he, Teddy, found himself in Broadway. Paying no heed to the jam of street cars, lorries, private cars, and motor trucks, he dashed into the interlaced streams of traffic. He dashed—and was held up. He dashed again—and was held up a second time. He was held up a third time, a fourth, and a fifth. With every spurt of two or three feet, cries warned him and curses startled him. "Say, sonny, your ma must have lost you," came from a jocose chauffeur beside whose machine Teddy had been brought to a halt. "I’d damn well like to run over you," shouted the driver of a van who had narrowly escaped doing it. Teddy wished he had. If he could only be sure of being killed, it might have been the easiest way out.