And then, luckily or unluckily, a reckless motor tore past, and the black horse plunged and Mr. Miles had to go to its head and ‘talk pretty’ to it for a minute. And in that minute Quentin lifted the sacking, and looked out. It was low sunset, and the street was deserted. He stepped out of the crate, dropped to the ground, and slipped behind a stout and friendly water-butt that seemed to offer protective shelter.
Joe came, and the crate was taken down.
‘You haven’t seen nothing of that there runaway boy by chance?’ said a new voice—Joe’s no doubt.
‘What boy?’ said Mr. Miles.
‘Run away from school, Salisbury,’ said [p74 Joe. ‘Telegrams far and near, so they be. Little varmint.’
‘I ain’t seen no boys, not more’n ordinary,’ said Mr. Miles. ‘Thick as flies they be, here, there, and everywhere, drat ’em. Sixpence—Correct. So long, Joe.’
The cart rattled away. Joe and the crate blundered out of hearing, and Quentin looked cautiously round the water-butt.
This was an adventure. But he was cooler now than he had been at starting—his hot anger had died down. He would have been contented, he could not help feeling, with a less adventurous adventure.
But he was in for it now. He felt, as I suppose people feel when they jump off cliffs with parachutes, that return was impossible.
Hastily turning his school cap inside out—the only disguise he could think of, he emerged from the water-butt seclusion and into the street, trying to look as if there was no reason why he should not be there. He did not know the village. It was not Lyndhurst. And of course asking the way was not to be thought of.