"When it doesn't rain," remarked the practical Halstead. "You know, this is the rainy season in California."
"I don't care," contended Joe. "Even on a rainy day it must be beautiful in this fine old state."
"And on a foggy one, also," laughed Tom. "You know, at this time of the year, there are likely to be some great old fogs around San Francisco Bay. I've heard that it takes a clever pilot to guess correctly whether he's landing at San Francisco or Oakland."
"Humph!" grunted Joe.
Dawson turned, looking out of the window for some time without speaking.
"We're getting near some big town," he remarked, at last. Then, after glancing at his watch: "It must be Oakland."
"Yes," nodded Tom. "I guess we'll soon be making our stop at the Sixteenth Street station."
"Anything special about that station?"
"It's the last stop before we run out onto the mole at Oakland."
The train had now begun to run, at greatly lessened speed, through one of the streets of the city. Joe found less to interest him. He glanced upward at the rack, toward his traveling bag and overcoat.