e had taken the rough very much to heart.
So much that he did not mean to take any more of it.

His dinner was brought up on a tray--bread and water. He put the bread
in his pocket. Then when he knew that every one was at dinner in the
long dining-room at the back of the house, he just walked very quietly
down the stairs, opened the side door and marched out, down the garden
path and out at the tradesmen's gate. He knew better than to shut either
gate or door.

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 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