Lister nodded, put up his papers, and then lighted a cigarette.

The smoking-compartment was hot, the light the rocking lamp threw about had hurt his eyes, and he thought he would go out on the platform for a few minutes.
He went.

The draught that swept the gap between the cars was bracing and cool.

There was a moon, he saw water shine and dark pines stream past.
The snorting of the locomotive broke in a measured beat through the roll of wheels; the rocks threw back confused echoes about the clanging cars.
Then the gleam among the trees got wider and Lister knew they were nearing a trestle that crossed an arm of a lake.

In fact, he had wondered whether he would be sent to pull down the bridge and rebuild it with steel.
He sat down on the little box-seat, with his back against the door.