"Yes," answered Harry, vacantly.
"My dear!" repeated Mrs Blewcome, "come along with me!"
Harry wanted his breakfast. He was ravenously hungry.
"Give me something to eat, then," he said stolidly, "and I'll come."
"Get up into the van, my dear, and I will. Here, Tim, help the boy up."
And Harry, nothing daunted, reached out his hand, and Timothy Blewcome gravely assisted him up the steps.
Gazing admiringly at the gorgeous colouring of the door and sides of the strange habitation on wheels, Harry sat himself down in one corner of the van, and, somehow or other, soon began to feel quite at home. Mrs Blewcome then ascended, the word was given, and the whole cavalcade moved on.
It was the work of a moment; and there was Harry, not the least realising his position, a member of a travelling menagerie. It was a change from the previous day, certainly.
The space of the apartment was somewhat confined, and the springs seemed to be very bad, for the caravan jolted along in such a manner that he could scarcely help upsetting the cup of bread and milk the motherly hands of Mrs Blewcome had given him.
He never uttered a word, but ate his breakfast, and enjoyed it thoroughly, thinking it far nicer than all the good things he had had in the Doctor's study on the previous night. Last night! Could it really be last night? It seemed such a long, long while ago.