But a few of the townfolk were starting to follow, in an idle way which could turn serious in a heartbeat, and Gregor could take a hint. There was an overgrown patch of old wood, almost all the way up to the millpond; and while it looked pretty damned wild there he didn’t see any wasps or snarevine. Not the sort of thing you’d want to follow an already-chastised mountebank into, unless you were really mad at him.
So he plunged into the underbrush, wincing at the brambles (which were there in abundance). Gregor was good at running away, too: he didn’t waste time on amateur mistakes, like looking back to see who was following him, or panicking. He knew these kinds of races were won by the people who kept on plugging until the other side gave up. After ten years in this business, he thought, I should know a few things.