Mr Gudgeon looked at her sideways. “Either I’ve been mistook,” he said slowly, “or you’re the most precious young warmint I ever did see. Maybe I will go to this place you talks about, and maybe while I’m gone you’ll sit waiting for me where you won’t do no harm.”
They had turned into a broad thoroughfare with streets leading off from it on either side. Pen, who had no intention of returning to Queen Charlton, or of being locked up in Bristol gaol, made up her mind, now that Mr Gudgeon’s grasp on her arm had become little more than perfunctory, to try the chances of escape. She said airily: “Just as you please, only I warn you, Mr Brandon will be excessively angry if he hears that you have molested me. Naturally, I do not wish to—Oh, look, look! Quick!”
They were abreast of one of the side streets by this time, and Pen’s admirable start brought the Runner to a dead halt. She clasped his arm with her free hand, and exclaimed: “Over there, just turning into that road! It was he! Captain Trimble! He must have seen me, for he set off running at once! oh, do be quick!”
“Where?” demanded Mr Gudgeon, taken off his guard, and looking round wildly.
“There!” panted Pen, and tore herself free from his hold, and ran like a deer down the side-street.
She heard a shout behind her, but wasted no time in looking back. A woman engaged in scrubbing her front doorstep set up a cry of Stop, thief! and an errand boy with a large basket on his arm, gave a shrill cat-call. Pen reached the end of the street with the sound of the hue and cry behind her, turned the corner, saw an alley leading to a huddle of mean dwellings, and sped down it.
It led her into a labyrinth of narrow streets, with dirty gutters, and crazy cottages, and backyards noisome with the refuse left to rot in them. She had never penetrated into this part of the town before, and was soon quite lost. This circumstance did not trouble her much, however, for the noise of the chase had died away in the rear. She did not think that anyone had seen her dive into the alley so that she was able to entertain a reasonable hope of shaking off the pursuit. She stopped running, and began to walk, rather breathlessly, in what she trusted was an easterly direction. After traversing a number of unknown streets, she came at last to a more respectable part of the town, and ventured to enquire the way to the inn where she had left her cloak-bag. She discovered that she had overshot it, and, further, that the time was now a few minutes after nine. She looked so dismayed that her informant, a stout man in corduroys and a frieze coat, who was just preparing to climb into a gig, asked her whether she wanted the London stage-coach. Upon her admitting that she did, he said philosophically: “Well, you’ve missed it.”
“Oh dear, what shall I do?” said Pen, foreseeing a day spent in skulking about the town to escape discovery by Mr Gudgeon.
The farmer, who had been looking her over in a ruminative fashion, said: “Be you in a hurry?”
“Yes, yes! That is, I have paid for my seat, you see.”