Then standing up in front of the cab himself, he lashed the horse and roared aloud, so that they went down the streets like a flying storm.

Through street after street and square after square went whirling this preposterous vehicle, in which the fare was urging the horse and the driver trying desperately to stop it.

The other three cabs came after it (if the phrase be permissible of a cab) like panting hounds.

Shops and streets shot by like rattling arrows.
At the highest ecstacy of speed, Sunday turned round on the splashboard where he stood, and sticking his great grinning head out of the cab, with white hair whistling in the wind, he made a horrible face at his pursuers, like some colossal urchin.

Then raising his right hand swiftly, he flung a ball of paper in Syme's face and vanished.