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 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? 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 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.