At times he zigzagged; other times, he fell behind, wabbling.

Anon, with elbows flopping and his face sculptured like an antique mask, he would actually forge ahead, and then carom from one to the other of his companions as he fell back again.
Thus the trio sped through the coming of autumn dusk, outflying the fallen leaves that tumbled upon the wind.

And still Penrod held to the task that he had set himself.

The street lamps flickered into life, but on and on Claude Blakely led the lady, and on and on reeled the grim Penrod.

Never once was he so far from them that they could have exchanged a word unchaperoned by his throbbing ear.
"OH!" Margaret cried, and, halting suddenly, she draped herself about a lamp-post like a strip of bunting.