He went quickly down the street, turned the first corner he came to so as to get out of sight of the school. He turned another corner, went through an archway, and found himself in an inn-yard—very quiet indeed. Only a liver-coloured lurcher dog wagged a sleepy tail on the hot flag-stones.
Quentin was just turning to go back through the arch, for there was no other way out of the yard, when he saw a big covered cart, whose horse wore a nose-bag and looked as if there was no hurry. The cart bore the name, ‘Miles, Carrier, Lyndhurst.’
Quentin knew all about lifts. He had often begged them and got them. Now there was no one to ask. But he felt he could very well explain later that he had wanted a lift, much better than now, in fact, when he might be [p72 caught at any moment by some one from the school.
He climbed up by the shaft. There were boxes and packages of all sorts in the cart, and at the back an empty crate with sacking over it. He got into the crate, pulled the sacking over himself, and settled down to eat his bread.
Presently the carrier came out, and there was talk, slow, long-drawn talk. After a long while the cart shook to the carrier’s heavy climb into it, the harness rattled, the cart lurched, and the wheels were loud and bumpy over the cobble stones of the yard.
Quentin felt safe. The glow of anger was still hot in him, and he was glad to think how they would look for him all over the town, in vain. He lifted the sacking at one corner so that he could look out between the canvas of the cart’s back and side, and hoped to see the classical master distractedly looking for him. But the streets were very sleepy. Every one in Salisbury was having dinner—or in the case of the affluent, lunch.
The black horse seemed as sleepy as the streets, and went very slowly. Also it stopped very often, and wherever there were parcels to leave there was slow, long talkings to be exchanged. I think, perhaps, Quentin dozed a good deal under his sacks. At any rate it was [p73 with a shock of surprise that he suddenly heard the carrier’s voice saying, as the horse stopped with a jerk:
‘There’s a crate for you, Mrs. Baddock, returned empty,’ and knew that that crate was not empty, but full—full of boy.
‘I’ll go and call Joe,’ said a voice—Mrs. Baddock’s, Quentin supposed, and slow feet stumped away over stones. Mr. Miles leisurely untied the tail of the cart, ready to let the crate be taken out.
Quentin spent a paralytic moment. What could he do?