The train had turned southward.

Neroly was passed, then Brentwood, then Byron.
In the gathering dusk, mountains began to build themselves up on either hand, far off, blocking the horizon.

The train shot forward, roaring.
Between the mountains the land lay level, cut up into farms, ranches.
These continually grew larger; growing wheat began to appear, billowing in the wind of the train's passage.

The mountains grew higher, the land richer, and by the time the moon rose, the train was well into the northernmost limits of the valley of the San Joaquin.
Annixter had engaged an entire section, and after he and his wife went to bed had the porter close the 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.