Meanwhile Tom Summers, when he once found himself clear of the court, turned his back on the water-side quarters, and made the best of his way towards the Lime-street station. He still walked with an apparently painful limp; he still shuffled along with his shoulder almost rubbing against the wall; he looked like a sailor just recovering from a bad illness, and as such he was compassionated at the Lime-street station by an old woman, who gave him sixpence, and offered him a pull at the black bottle in her wicker basket, telling him, at the same time, that her son was at sea too, and on the west coast of Africa; worse luck! It was for the parliamentary train to Chester, which was about to start, that Tom Summers took a third-class ticket; and carefully avoiding the carriage into which he watched his recent benefactress, climbed into an empty compartment, and curling himself up into a corner, scarcely waited for the starting of the train to fall asleep. There was no chance of any particular notice being taken of him, for scarcely a train left Lime-street which did not carry some liberty-men from the great ships in the Mersey going inland for a few days' furlough. There was no chance of his being carried beyond his destination, for he had purposely selected a carriage which did not go farther than Chester; he could enjoy the luxury of a long silent sleep, and he did. Once he started forward and groaned, but on waking suddenly he could recollect nothing more than that he had been striking at something which disappeared beneath his blow; and once more he put his feet upon the seat, and went to sleep again. By the time the slow-going train, which stopped at every station to pick up and let out crowds of men and women, carrying baskets of country produce, arrived at the Chester station, Tom Summers was thoroughly rested. He stepped blithely out of the carriage, exchanged a pleasant good-morning with the guard, and made straight for the newspaper stall on which the bundle of Liverpool papers, only arriving in time at Lime-street to be thrown into the van, were then being unpacked. He bought a copy of each morning journal, and seating himself on a neighbouring bench, turned one after the other inside out, and rapidly ran his eye over their contents. Twice he passed the morning journals thus in review before him, occasionally starting as his eye caught certain paragraphs with sensation headings, but reading rapidly on until he had perused the batch. Then, with a sigh of relief, he rose and made his way to the cloak-room. To the porter who was in attendance there in the absence of the general functionary, not yet arrived, Tom Summers handed a printed ticket, immediately receiving for it in exchange a small black bag. 'Here is your kit. Jack,' remarked the porter, handing it to him.