Escape From Home by Avi

and his jacket was badly torn. His whole appearance was that of a street beggar, not the son of a wealthy lord, which he certainly was. “I hate Albert,” Laurence said aloud.
    He tried to take the jacket off, but it hurt so to twist about that he left it on. He did pull off his cravat—saw blood on it—and tossed it away with disgust.
    Standing before the fire—the warmth soothed him—Laurence tried to think of ways of gaining revenge. No one else in the family would help him. As far as he could see, his mother always took Albert’s side in disputes. The same went for his two sisters, three and five years older than he.
    Laurence thought of what he’d said about running away. The idea was appealing. The whole family would be sorry and regret treating him so badly. If he reached America and if it were true—as his father said—that his brother could no longer bully him there, why, then … But, no, running away was impossible. He was doomed to a life of unfairness.
    Suddenly very tired, Laurence sat in his father’s chair behind the table. His feet barely touched the floor. Idly, he speculated as to how he might go to America. He had heard talk among the adults about the large numbers of people sailing there. They embarked—he recalled—from the city of Liverpool. He had only a vague sense as to where—or what—it was.
    Regarding America, Laurence knew even less. He supposed it was rather like England, though different in ways he could not readily imagine. Something to do with a wild and rude people. He recalled someone saying that although Americans had foolishly broken away from Great Britain, they did speak English. Why they broke away Laurence had no idea. Some quarrel. He wondered if it was like his quarrel with his brother. If so, perhaps the people in the United States would side with him. “It’s so unfair! They should ,” he murmured.
    While mulling over such random thoughts, Laurence stayed at the table, picking up papers, reading bits, putting them down. Most were business reports about lands his father owned throughout the kingdom, full of strange names like Dundee, Borking, Kilonny, Glasgow. All Laurence knew about these places was that his father never went to them. Agents looked after his interests. Sent him money. Lately though, his father had been grumbling about money. Things must have been rather bad for him to have spoken on the subject. Talk of money was considered grossly impolite.
    Finding the papers uninteresting, Laurence put them aside and pulled open the table drawer. There lay a great stack of money in one-, twenty-, and one-hundred-pound notes.
    Startled, Laurence stared at the bills. He touched them carefully, as if they were charged with sparks. Finally, he picked the bundle up and sorted it. Two thousand pounds!
    Laurence wished he knew the worth of two thousand pounds. He had never handled money. On excursions, if he desired something—a toy, a book, food—servants always made the purchase for him. In all his eleven years, Laurence had never bought a thing.
    A new idea filled him: Would this money in his hand be enough to take him to America? He had heard Cook say to one of his sister’s upstairs maids that she earned twelve pounds a year. Whether that was a lot or a little, Laurence was not sure. Even so, it began to dawn upon him that if he really wanted to run away, here was the money to do it. Just the possibility brought a surge of excitement.
    Laurence considered his reasons for going: He would always be beneath Albert. He would always be treated unfairly. He would never be believed. His father had not believed him when he’d said that he would run away—no more than he believed him when he spoke the truth about Albert.
    â€œBut if I did run away,” Laurence reasoned, “Father would know I had spoken the truth about going. Surely then he would know I spoke the truth about Albert