six o'clock
At first there was what you might call a road , straight and worn deep , between parallel lines of barb-wire fencing . But this road soon melted into nothing more than a trail , a never-ending gently curving trail that ribboned out across the prairie-floor as far as the eye could see . It was a glorious afternoon , one of those opaline , blue-arched autumn days when it should have been a joy merely to be alive . But I was in an antagonistic mood , and the little cabin-like farmhouses that every now and then stood up against the sky-line made me feel lonesome , and the jolting of the heavy wagon made me tired , and by six o'clock I was so hungry that my ribs ached . We had been on the trail then almost five hours , and Olie calmly informed me it was only a few hours more . It got quite cool as the sun went down , and I had to undo my steamer-rug and get wrapped up in it . And still we went on .