He could take the evening train out of San Francisco, and in the morning he would be there.

And if he were not sufficiently lost in Quincy, he could take to the mountains all around.

There were mountains, he guessed from what the boy had told him; and canyons and heavy timber.
The thought of having some definite, attainable goal cheered him so much that he went to sleep again, sitting hunched down in the seat with his hat over his eyes, so that no one could see his face; and since no one but the man who sold it had ever seen him in that sport suit, he felt almost safe.
He left the train reluctantly at the big, new station in San Francisco, and took a street car to the ferry depot.

There he kept out of sight behind a newspaper in the entrance to the waiting room until he was permitted to pass through the iron gate to the big, resounding room where passengers for the train ferry were herded together like corralled sheep.

It seemed very quiet there, to be the terminal station in a large city.
Jack judged nervously that people did not flock to the best fishing in the State, in spite of all the peanut butcher had told him.