I CAN'T go back.

Hurry now, hurry, hurry, hurry." He hastened on furtively, his head and shoulders bent.

At times one could almost say he crouched as he pushed forward with long strides; now and then he even looked over his shoulder.

Sweat rolled from him, he lost his hat, and the matted mane of thick yellow hair swept over his forehead and shaded his small, twinkling eyes.

At times, with a vague, nearly automatic gesture, he reached his hand forward, the fingers prehensile, and directed towards the horizon, as if he would clutch it and draw it nearer; and at intervals he muttered, "Hurry, hurry, hurry on, hurry on." For now at last McTeague was afraid.
His plans were uncertain.