  The car, after hesitating several times as though undecided what to do next, finally came to an unmistakable stop. The rear wheels, although equipped with heavy chains, spun around for a moment and then they also stopped. “Looks as though we’re stuck, Mike.” The words came from a boy in the front seat, but they were lost to the driver in the roar of the wind as it drove the blinding snow against the windows of the sedan. The speaker tried again. “Looks as though we’re stuck, Mike.” This time he shouted at the top of his voice and the driver turned his head. “Stuck is right, begorra,” he shouted back. “Sure and it’s meself that’s been expecting it fer the last half hour, an’ how could ye expect inything on wheels to git through sich drifts, I dunno.” “How about a shovel, Mike?” The question came from a second boy in the back seat and it also was shouted with all the strength of a sound pair of lungs. “Sure and I’ve got a shovel, do yez expect to dig all the way to Skowhegan?” The two boys, Bob and Jack Golden, were on their way home from college for the Christmas holidays. Unfortunately they had missed the train which they should have taken at Boston, and the only other one for the day would take them as far as Waterville, nineteen miles from their home in Skowhegan. Rather than wait over a day, they had telegraphed to their father and he had sent his man, Mike, to meet them. The snow had begun to fall soon after they left Portland and the storm had increased rapidly in violence until, when they reached Waterville, at ten o’clock, two hours late, it had reached the proportions of a blizzard. Mike had been dubious about starting, declaring that they would never make it, but the boys had laughed at his fears and, against his better judgment, he had yielded to them. During the first hour they made seven miles, plowing through snow up to wheel hubs. And this brings us to the point where our story opens. “I hope it won’t be so bad as that,” Bob said with a laugh, as he opened the door and stepped out into the storm. “Where’s the shovel, Mike?” “Sure and it’s under the back sate,” Mike shouted, as he too got out of the car. “Let’s have it quick, Jack,” Bob called, as he stuck his head in at the rear door. “It’s colder than Greenland out here.” Jack quickly pulled the shovel from beneath the seat and handed it to his brother, who at once started making the snow fly. “There,” he shouted to Mike, who had gotten back in the car, “Back up and hit her hard and I guess she’ll go through. Don’t think I ever saw the snow come down so fast,” he added, as he threw the shovel back in and climbed in beside Mike. “I told you so,” he shouted joyfully, a moment later, as the big car plowed its way through the drift. “All it needs is a little elbow grease.” But his joy was short lived for in less than a hundred rods they struck another drift and again the car came to a standstill. “My turn this time,” Jack shouted, and was out almost as soon as the car stopped. This drift was deeper than the first one and it took the boy all of fifteen minutes before he felt that there was a chance for the car to win through. “We’ll strike Skowhegan some time next summer at this rate,” he laughed, as he stamped his feet on the running board. As before, the car went through, but in less than a hundred feet they came to a halt for a third time. “It’s no use,” Bob shouted, as the car came to a stop. “We’ll never get through to-night, that’s sure. Suppose you turn around, Mike?” “What’s the use of trying?” Jack asked, before Mike had time to reply. “We’d probably get stuck just as quick if we tried to go back. I move we stay here.” “How about it, Mike? Got plenty of gas?” Bob asked. “Filled her up in Waterville.” “Then I think Jack’s suggestion is a good one. By running the engine once in a while we can keep plenty warm and they’ll probably break out the road early in the morning. What do you say Mike?” “Sure an I gess yer right. If we can’t go ayther forninst nor behind I guess we’d better stand still.” “That’s good logic anyhow,” Bob laughed, as he climbed over the back of the seat and joined his brother. “We’ll be as snug as a bug in a rug and there’s no danger of getting run into,” he added, as he curled up on the roomy seat and pulled a heavy robe over himself. “Not much need of traffic cops on this road tonight,” Jack shouted from the other corner of the car. Bob was just drifting off to sleep when, above the shriek of the wind he heard a cry which brought him sitting upright in an instant. “Did you hear that, Jack?” he shouted. “Listen: there it is again.” “Help!” Again came the cry in piercing tones now plainly audible. “Sounds like a girl,” Bob cried, as he pushed open the door and leaped out, closely followed by his brother. Breathlessly they listened for the call to be repeated, but no sound save the howling of the wind came to them. “Which way was it?” Jack asked, straining his ears. “Haven’t the least idea,” Bob replied, as he waded around to the front of the car. By this time Mike had joined them and, after listening a moment longer, Bob said: “She must have given out. Mike, you hunt around to the right, and Jack you go back a bit and I’ll see what I can find up ahead here. It isn’t likely that she’s down by the river. If you find her yell,” he shouted as they started off. The wind was still blowing a gale and the sharp particles of snow stung like so many needles as Bob faced into the storm. It was so dark that he could hardly see his hand before his face and the headlights were of little use as the car had stopped at an angle to the road. The snow came nearly to his waist as he plowed his way through. “She can’t be very far off,” he thought, as he bent his head to the force of the wind. “I don’t believe you could hear a steam whistle a hundred feet away in this gale.” He had not gone more than thirty feet from the car when his knee struck something and the next second he was bending over a form, which was nearly buried in the snow. Quickly he straightened up and, putting his hands to his mouth trumpet fashion, he gave a yell that would have done credit to a Comanche Indian. As he again stooped and lifted the girl in his arms she gave a low moan which he barely caught. “She’s not dead at any rate,” he muttered, as he endeavored to start toward the car. But, although the wind was now at his back, the snow was too deep and he was unable to take a step. But help was close at hand, as both Jack and Mike had heard his cry. “Give her to me,” ordered the big Irishman, as he reached Bob’s side. “Now break trail an’ it’s meself that’ll take her back,” and he took the girl in his strong arms as though she were but a feather. The boys kicked their way back, making a fairly decent path through the snow, and in a few minutes they had her in the car. Mike at once started the engine, as it was far from warm, while Bob wrapped her in a heavy robe and began to chafe her hands. The girl was not unconscious, as he could tell by the appearance of her eyes, but she seemed numbed with the cold. Quickly the heat from the exhaust made itself felt and soon the rich color of health began to steal back into the pale cheeks. The chattering of her teeth gradually grew less and finally a faint smile lighted up her face. “I hope—I won’t—shake—the car—to pieces,” she said, evidently trying hard to make her voice heard above the howling of the wind. “I guess she’ll hold together: she’s had a lots bigger shaking up than this and came through all right,” Bob assured her with a laugh. “My, but this—robe—feels good,” she declared. “It was so—cold out there—in the—snow, and—and I thought I was—a goner.” In a short time she was recovered sufficiently to tell them her story. It seemed that she had spent the evening at a neighbor’s only a few rods from her home. She had started for home soon after eleven o’clock, never for a moment doubting her ability to find her way. But she had entirely underestimated the fury of the storm and bewildered by the blinding snow had lost the path. For nearly two hours she had stumbled about in the deep snow before Bob had found her. She told them that her name was Mary Scott and that she was sure that she had not gone far from her home. She also informed them that she was twenty years old and was a school teacher. The boys in turn introduced themselves and Bob asked: “Won’t your folks be out looking for you?” “Not likely. You see,” she explained, “my father is a farmer and he goes to bed early and no doubt they were all fast asleep before ten o’clock, so you see they won’t miss me till morning.” It was now nearly two o’clock and after some further talk they, one by one, capitulated to the sand man, all except Mike, who forced himself to keep awake in order to “kape up steam,” as he afterward told them. Day had come when Bob, the first of the three to awake, opened his eyes. The storm had passed, although a high wind was still blowing, sending the light snow swirling in clouds about the car. But it had lost much of its savage force and no longer howled as it had during the night. His watch told him that it was just past seven o’clock. “Some storm,” he said in a low voice to Mike who just then started the engine. “I’ll say that same, begorra,” Mike declared. “Sure an’ it’s meself that niver seed a worser one except a few that were bigger.” “That’s playing it safe all right,” Bob laughed, as he climbed over to the front seat. “Here comes some one,” he announced an instant later, as he saw the form of a man plowing his way through the snow toward the car. He threw open the door as the man came up. “Ain’t seed nothin’ of a gal, have ye?” he asked, and it was evident that he was much worried. “Sure have,” Bob replied quickly. “Dug her out of the snow last night,” he added, and just then the girl spoke for herself. “I’m all right Daddy, thanks to these folks.” “Thank God for that,” the man breathed as he stepped into the car and hugged the girl to his breast. “You see when I got up this mornin’ an’ seed that you aren’t home I sposed that you had stayed all night at Lucy’s but ter make sartain, I ’phoned over an when Lucy said as how you had set out fer home last night I jest thought as how you’d be frizzed fer sartain. Yer mother’s nigh crazy, an’ I must hustle back an’ let her know that yer’re all right.” He thanked them for what they had done, but the boys cut him short telling him how glad they were they had found her in time. “My place’s the second one on the left, and you won’t have ter wait morn a few minutes afore Jeb Taylor comes along with the snow plow. He was jest gittin hitched up as I come by,” Mr. Scott explained, as he stood with one foot on the running board. “Gess ye’ll have ter move your car though so’es he can git by. Yer see Jeb he breaks out’s fur as the Waterville line an’ Josh Howland he goes up tother way’s fur as Hinkley. Josh he allays gits started afore Jeb an’ I low as how he’s half way up that by now. But I must hump back an’ let the missus know as how Mary’s all right. If ye’ll jest drop her off as yer go by it’ll save her gettin’ all over snow again.” The boys assured him that they would be glad to do as he asked and after thanking them again he started back. By great good luck the car had stopped at a place where, after a half hour’s work with the shovel, they were able to back the car out of the road. “Here they come,” Jack shouted a moment later, and looking up the road they saw the snow plow, characteristic of Maine. It was made of two huge logs fastened together in the shape of a V and drawn by eight yoke of oxen. A half dozen men and twice as many boys accompanied it, and the boys at least evidently considered it a great lark as their shouts of laughter attested. After the plow had passed came the task of shoveling through the huge pile of snow heaped up by the roadside. But finally this was accomplished and they were off. Mr. Scott was waiting for them as they reached the farm house, and insisted that they stop for breakfast, although to tell the truth, they did not need a great deal of urging. “Mother’s got a big batch o’ buckwheat cakes and sassage all ready an I reckon as how ye’ll have an appetite as’ll about fit ’em,” he declared, as he led the way to the house. They found Mrs. Scott a motherly woman who showered them with thanks, and the breakfast was all and more than the farmer had promised. “I guess we’ll get home in time for Santa Claus at any rate,” said Bob. It was several hours after they had said goodbye to their new friends, and they were still several miles from home. Three or four miles an hour was about the best they had been able to make, for they had been obliged to follow behind the slowly moving plow nearly all the way. “We ought to make it by three o’clock,” Bob replied to Jack’s guess. But it was nearer four when finally they drove into the yard. “We were about to send out a relief expedition for you,” Mr. Golden laughed, as he welcomed them home. |
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