"Not I," he said, "I'm flying over the tops of them, after Brer Rabbit all the time."
"Oh! Then it's time you caught him. He's putting his little head up just behind a tuft of the grass. Don't you see him?"
"Not yet, Bunty Blue. I'll take your hand and give you a run after him when I do and we'll be in at the death."
"Not death, Pip—Don't say that—not death. I couldn't bear that poor little rabbit to die. Let him have a chance to get away again. We don't want him quite to go. If he would only let us know who he is. If he would only reform his ways."
"Now you be quiet. I'm working hard," he said.
He was always most off-hand and short with me but I felt at home with him and never resented what he said.
There was yet one other picture-show that threw a light on my trouble at this time—a terrible light.
It showed me that Tony and I were pawns in a game and the chess-player was so ruthless and his power so terrible and so hard to get away from that as I sat there, my heart beating hard at the horror and wickedness there is in the world that allows "mind-throwing" to be practised and people to be made tools of, I gave a mental cry.
"Oh, Miracle Man! Miracle Man! No one but you can help. No one but you, if we can't break through the bad with that White Light, there's no hope of freedom."
It was all the same, Good against Bad, Ruthless against Pitiful, this horrible driving of one mind by the other who tried in vain to burst through the shackles and gain its freedom. Could this be allowed in the twentieth century, this taking possession of another's mind and using it as a tool?
