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"Lytton," said Hank; "that's where we are—Lytton. We've got a little way to go yet."

The locomotive bell clanged, and the smash-smash-smash came along to us. We received one dull impact that jarred us as if we were part of the car, and listened to the whacks go on and die away. We were off once more.

"Say, are you awake?" asked Hank.

"Yes," said I.

"It's named after a relative of the novelist Lytton. The relative was a government man—governor, or deputy-governor, or some damned thing like that. This West has its history, all right." He grunted, and then muttered: "Fetch me my shaving water in time to spruce up for North Bend," and was asleep again next minute, to judge by his breathing.

Long before coming to North Bend we were all awake again, had hauled on our shoes, rolled and roped our blankets, toothbrushes, shaving-tackle, change of socks and so forth, all safely within the bundles.

In the event the disembarking was no more difficult than the boarding of her. She stopped and Slim, at the end wicket that was open, peeped out.