'My skipper's, not mine,' said Tom Summers; 'it's too fine for the likes of me;' words which had a hidden humour apparently altogether too much for the porter? who kept bursting into loud guffaws of laughter long after Tom Summers had left him. With the small bag swinging upon his hand, Tom Summers walked past the Queen's Hotel, and down the broad road, yet unbuilt on, leading to the town. On one spot a temporary wooden circus had been erected, and he stopped to read the bills of the performance hanging at the door. Then he lounged along again; but as soon as he came within the precincts of the town, he turned in between two of the old houses up a passage, at the end of which was a flight of stone steps leading to the ancient city walls. These he ascended, and when he found himself on the walls, he hesitated as though in doubt which way to turn. Beneath him lay the old city, its quaintly fantastic gabled roofs, its cathedral tower, its numerous church spires, and its hundred relics of mediaeval architecture glowing in the early morning sun. Beyond were to be seen the broad silver windings of the Dee, the velvet-turfed racecourse, just outlined by its white posts and rails, and far away in the distance, heaving up their broad shoulders out of the blue haze, the majestic range of the Welsh mountains. That was the side to which Tom Summers inclined; he sought the country, not the city; and turning sharply to his right, he made a half circuit of the wall, and descended in a by-lane which gave right upon the racecourse. Once only did he pause in his work, and that was when his steps took him in front of the county gaol, a full view of which is commanded from the walls; a prison omnibus drew up at the huge outer gate, and from it some half-dozen prisoners descended, heavily handcuffed, and were marched into the gaol-yard between a file of warders. Tom Summers surveyed this little ceremony with great interest, leaning over the top of the crumbling wall, and shading his eyes from the sun with his hands. When the great gates clanged behind them, an expression, half of pity, half of contempt, crossed his face, and after he had muttered: 'Poor devils,' he speedily added: 'Stupid fools,' then he shrugged his shoulders and went on his way.