the trackless roadway showed that.
It was equally evident that if one was coming, I had better meet it on
the way than stay where I was and freeze to death. The fence was still
visible--the near end--and there was a farmhouse somewhere--so the
conductor had said, and he seemed to be an honest, truthful man. Whether
to right or left of the invisible road, the noise of the train and the
howl of the wind had prevented my knowing--but _somewhere's_--That was a
consolation.

The bags were the most serious obstacles. If I carried one in each hand
the umbrella would have to be cached, for some future relief expedition
to find in the spring.

There _was_ a way, of course, to carry bags--any number of bags. All
that was needed was a leather strap with a buckle at each end; I had
helped to hang half a dozen bags across the shoulders of as many porters
meeting trains all over Europe. Of course, I didn't wear leather straps.
Suspenders were my stronghold. They might!--No, it was too cold to get
at them in that wind. And if I did they were of the springy, wabbly kind
that would seesaw the load from my hips to my calves.

The only thing was to press on. Some one had blundered, of course.

"Half a league, half a league--into the jaws," etc.

"Theirs not to reason why--" But my duty was plain; the audience were
already assembling; the early ones in their seats by this time.

Then an inspiration surged through me. Why not slip the umbrella through
the handle of one bag, as Pat carries his shillalah and bundle of duds,
and grab the other in my free hand! Our carriage couldn't be far off.
The exercise would keep my blood active and my feet from freezing, and
as to the road, was there not the fence, its top rail making rabbit
jumps above the drifts?

So I trudged on, stumbling into holes, flopping into treacherous ruts,
halting in the steeper places to catch my breath, till I reached the top
of the hill. There I halted--stopped short, in fact: the fence had given
out! In its place was a treacherous line of bushes that faded into a
delusive clump of trees. Beyond, and on both sides, stretched a great
white silence--still as death.

Another council of war. I could retrace my steps, smash in the windows
of the station, and camp for the night, taking my chances of stopping
some east-bound train as it whizzed past, with a match and my
necktie--or I could stumble on, perhaps in a circle, and be found in
the morning by the early milk.