he upper berth. Hilma sat up in bed to
say her prayers, both hands over her face, and then kissing Annixter
good-night, went to sleep with the directness of a little child, holding
his hand in both her own.

Annixter, who never could sleep on the train, dozed and tossed and
fretted for hours, consulting his watch and time-table whenever there
was a stop; twice he rose to get a drink of ice water, and between
whiles was forever sitting up in the narrow berth, stretching himself
and yawning, murmuring with uncertain relevance:

"Oh, Lord! Oh-h-h LORD!"

There were some dozen other passengers in the car--a lady with three
children, a group of school-teachers, a couple of drummers, a stout
gentleman with whiskers, and a well-dressed young man in a plaid
travelling cap, whom Annixter had observed before supper time reading
Daudet's "Tartarin" in the French.

But by nine o'clock, all these people were in their berths.
Occasionally, above the rhythmic rumble of the wheels, Annixter could
hear one of the lady's children fidgeting and complaining. The stout
gentleman snored monotonously in two notes, one a rasping bass, the
other a prolonged treble. At intervals, a brakeman or the passenger
conductor pushed down the aisle, between the curtains, his red and
white lamp over his arm. Looking out into the car Annixter saw in an end
section where the berths had not been made up, the porter, in his white
duck coat, dozing, his mouth wide open, his head on his shoulder.

The hours passed. Midnight came and went. Annixter, checking off the
stations, noted their passage of Modesto, Merced, and Madeira. Then,
after another broken nap, he lost count. He wondered where they were.
Had they reached Fresno yet? Raising the window curtain, he made a shade
with both hands on either side of his face and looked out. The night was
thick, dark, clouded over. A fine rain was falling, leaving horizontal
streaks on the glass of the outside window. Only the faintest grey blur
indicated the sky. Everything else was impenetrable blackness.

"I think sure we must have passed Fresno," he muttered. He looked at his
watch. It was about half-past three. "If we have passed Fresno," he said
to himself, "I'd better wake the little girl pretty soon. She'll need
about an hour to dress. Better find out for sure."

He drew on his trousers and shoes, got into his coat, and stepped out
into the aisle. In the seat that had been occupied by the porter,
the Pullma