me, sulkily
admitted the superior power of nature's forces and hove to.

Fortunately, for humanity's sake, there were on our special--which
consisted of the engine, the baggage car, and our private car--only
five souls: Charles Fielding, the manager; myself, William Thurlow;
Fred Swan, the conductor; Joe Robbins, the driver; and the hero of
this history, Ovide Tetreault, the French-Canadian fireman.

It was about two o'clock in the morning when we finally gave up all
hope of getting along any farther, at least for some hours, and
Fielding and I lay down in our berths with the hope that the storm
would abate before daybreak, so that a snow-plough might reach us and
clear the line, in time to enable us to reach our homes for the
Christmas dinner.

But as I lay awake and listened to the shrieks of the storm, the
presentiment grew upon me that the chances of our spending the best
part of Christmas Day in our contracted abode were depressingly
promising. These thoughts, coupled with the knowledge that our car was
but poorly provisioned, and that we were without a cook--having let
that functionary stop off for Christmas Day at the station beyond
which we were stranded--were in nowise conducive to my falling asleep
more readily than was my wont.

I awoke a little after eight o'clock, and was just about to hurry into
my clothes to see what the weather was like, when I suddenly decided
there was no need of any undue haste--the roar of that festive wind
could have been heard a mile away.

When I did reach the body of the car and looked out of the window, a
sight met my gaze that might have made a less sinful man, than one who
had spent the best part of his life on railways, give vent to
comments that I am persuaded would not appear quite seemly in print.
Our car was wedged well-nigh up to the windows in a huge drift, while
the wind, which had whipped the harassed snow into fragments as fine
as dust, caught up great clouds of the dismembered flakes, and with
triumphant shrieks drove them against the panes of glass. As I stood
glaring at this inspiring picture, Fielding joined me and said, as he,
too, feasted his eyes on the scene: "A villainous day! we shall be
lucky if we get home by midnight. A lovely way to spend Christmas shut
in like rats in a trap! If we only had our cook to do up the little
food we have, it would not be so hard on us."

This last reflection was uttered in such a doleful key that I had
considerable d