Polchester was a painted town upon a blue screen, the Cathedral towers purple against the sky; the air was scented with burning leaves, and cries from the town rose up clear and hard, lingering and falling like notes of music.

Somewhere they were playing football, and the shouting was distant and regular like the tramp of armed men.

"Three" struck the Cathedral clock, as though it were calling "Open Sesame." Other lesser clocks repeated the challenge cry through the town.

"Woppley--Woppley--Why!" sung the man who was selling skins down Orange Street.

The sky, turning slowly from blue to gold, shone mysteriously through the glass of the street lamps, and the sun began to wrap itself in tints of purple and crocus and iris.
"Woppley--Woppley--Why!" screamed the skin-man suddenly appearing at the top of the street.
"Now 'urry, Master Jeremy," said the Jampot, "or we shall never get 'ome this night, and I might have known you'd choose the longest walk possible.