When he had done being his own barber, he couldn't for the life of him hit on a way of getting rid of the loose hair.

The fire was out, and he had no matches; so he couldn't burn it.

As for throwing it away, he didn't dare do that in the house or about the house, for fear of its being found, and betraying what he had done.

So he wraps it all up in paper, crams it into his pocket to be disposed of when he is at a safe distance from the Hall, takes his bag, gets out at the window, shuts it softly after him, and makes for the road as fast as his long legs will carry him.

There he walks on till a coach overtakes him, and so travels back to London to find himself in a fresh scrape as soon as he gets there.