He folded the newspaper and Alison resumed her sewing. By and by the conductor came along the passage and asked for their tickets.
“Your company’s generous,” Kit remarked. “My ticket’s a foot long. If I was going to the Pacific, I expect you’d give me a yard.”
“Something like that,” the conductor agreed. “If you haven’t a slip for each division, you’re put off the cars!” He turned to Alison. “I reckon you want a sleeper berth?”
“Of course,” said Alison, but a train hand came from the vestibule and beckoned the conductor.
“See you again,” he said and went off.
In the afternoon the train stopped at Ottawa, and when dusk began to fall, Kit, in a corner of the smoking compartment, watched the Ontario woods roll by. Dark pines cut the red sunset, but the woods were broken, and rivers, streaked by tossing rapids, pierced the gloom. Sometimes Kit saw a lake shine with faint reflections and melt. A light wind blew through the compartment and carried the smell of pines. By and by a porter lighted the lamp, and Kit got up. He thought he would see if Alison had got her berth.
When he opened the door he noted that the porter had let down the higher shelves and pulled the curtains. For the most part, the passengers had gone to bed, and the fellow was arranging two or three lower berths between the seats. Alison sat by a window and Kit thought her disturbed. Her folding ticket was on the seat, and when she took a thin roll of bills from her wallet she frowned.
“Hello!” said Kit. “Hasn’t the fellow fixed your berth?”
“He wants a ticket. At the steamship office they stated that sleeping accommodation was supplied on board the trains.”
“That is so,” said Kit, who began to see a light. “The conductor’s not about, but if you wait a few minutes, I expect to put all straight.”