DeGolyer lay beside him, and for a time Witherspoon was quiet, but suddenly he rose up and began to mutter.
"What's the matter, Henry ?" "Not Henry--Hank.

Henry's dead." "Well, what's the matter, Hank ?" "Want my hat." "It's up there.

We'll get it in the morning." "Want it now." DeGolyer got his hat for him, and he lay with it on his breast.

How dragging a night it was! Would the train never run from under the darkness out into the light of day?
And sometimes, when the train stopped, DeGolyer fancied that it had run ahead of night and perversely was waiting for the darkness to catch up.

The end was coming, and what an end it might be! The day was dark and rainy; the landscape was a flat dreariness.