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The Grammar School Boys Snowbound or, Dick & Co. at Winter Sports, a novel by H. Irving Hancock |
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Chapter 12. Blizzard Toil And A Mystery |
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_ CHAPTER XII. BLIZZARD TOIL AND A MYSTERY "Our old college chum, Mr. Fits, isn't stirring yet," reported Greg Holmes, after looking out through the rear window that offered the best view of the cook shack at the rear. "Too bad," muttered Tom Reade, turning away from a front window where he was watching only the steady fall of the flakes. "If he were a neighbor worth having he'd come out and offer to shovel the paths." "I wonder how cold it is outdoors?" pondered Hazelton aloud. "Somewhere below zero, certainly," rejoined Tom. "Suppose we call that definite enough?" "I'd like to get out into this storm," hinted Dave. "So would I," nodded Dick with energy. "It would be fine to be out in the grandest storm that we've ever seen! Down in Gridley I suppose the folks have the sidewalks cleaned off." "Don't you believe it," objected Dan Dalzell. "Not in this storm. Horses couldn't get through it to drag a plow, and it would take an army of men to shovel the snow away, for the wind will blow the snow back as fast as a fellow gets a few bushelfuls moved." "Let's try it and see!" proposed Dick, jumping up and going for his overshoes. "Mean it?" demanded Dave joyously. "Surely I do." "Then I'm with you." Dave ran to where his outdoor apparel lay. "Going with us, Tom?" "It's a bad example to set some of these small boys," gaped Tom with his most venerable air, "but I'm afraid I can't stay inside while you fellows are enjoying yourselves." Greg, too, hurried to get on his arctic overshoes and his overcoat. Then he pulled his toboggan cap well down over his ears and neck and donned his mittens. "There are only two snow shovels," announced Dick. "What are the rest of you going to use?" "Here's the fire shovel," answered Greg, producing it. "That will be good enough for me." "Get the door open, Dave," called Dick. Darrin unbarred the door, trying to swing it open. Tom Reade sprang to his aid, for the bottom of the door was frozen to the sill. "Bring the hot water, Hen," called Reade. "Get it yourself," grumbled Hen. But when Tom turned, and Hen saw his face, the latter made haste to bring the tea-kettle. "I'd better pour the water," proposed Tom, taking the kettle. "Dick, you and Dave begin to yank on the door as soon as you see the hot stream trickling on below." Reade made economical use of the water, yet it took considerable pouring to loosen up the door at the sill. "Better go slow with that water," warned Dutcher. "It's the last there is in the place." "Humph!" retorted Tom. "Once we get outside I guess we can dig our way to the spring." At last the door yielded and swung open. A mass of snow blew in upon them. Dick leaped at the white wall beyond and began plying his shovel vigorously. "It's light, and can be easily handled," he called back over his shoulder. So Dave waited until Dick had made a start of three or four feet. Then he moved out beside his chum, while Greg, the iron shovel in hand, stood at hand waiting for the other two to make room enough for him to be able to help them. Bump! went the door, for those inside, without coats or exercise, felt the cold that rushed into the cabin. "Where to?" called Dave, for the wind carried their voices off in the howling blast. "To the spring?" "We'd better," Dick replied, "as we're out of water." Between the depth of the snow and the fury of the storm the Grammar School boys quickly discovered that they had taken a huge task upon themselves. After more than ten minutes of laborious shoveling all three paused, as by common consent, and looked at the work accomplished. They had gone barely a dozen feet, and under foot, all the way back to the cabin door, the snow was still some two feet deep. The distance from the door to the spring being some ninety feet, it was plain that more than an hour would be needed for digging the way to the spring. "What's the use of all this trouble?" shouted Greg. "We can melt snow, anyway." "Snow water doesn't taste very good," objected Dave Darrin. "Besides, we don't want to admit ourselves stumped by a little snow," urged Dick. "Come on, fellows; we can make it if we have grit and industry enough. Here goes!" With that Dick Prescott began to shovel harder than ever, so the two chums added their efforts. Truth to tell, however, ere they had gone another six feet through the big drifts, their backs were aching. They could have progressed more rapidly, but for the fact that the wind blew much of the snow back into the trench they were cutting through the great banks of white stuff. "Are we going to make it?" asked Dave dubiously at last. "We've got to," Dick retorted. "The other fellows ought to come out and help us," proposed Greg. "That's not a very bad idea, either," Dick agreed, as he started shoveling once more. "Greg, go back and tell them what we want." Prescott and Darrin went on shoveling, manfully, until Tom, Dan and Harry came wallowing along over what there was of a path and took the shovels. After that, with twenty minute shifts, the work went along more rapidly, though once in a while one of the shovelers had to go back over the path, digging out where more snow had blown in. Hen Dutcher was not asked to share in this strenuous work. He had enough to do in the cabin, and this outdoor performance was no work, anyway, for a whiner. "Get the axe and some of the buckets," called Dick finally, as he, at the head of a shift, reached and located the spring. The water was, of course, covered with a thick armor of ice. Greg moved into position with the axe, striking fast and hard. Dave and Tom, with the snow shovels, moved back over the opened way, keeping it clear in defiance of the gale. As soon as Greg had the ice chopped away sufficiently, Dick, Dan and Harry began to carry water. There was a water barrel in the cabin. "If we had filled this yesterday we wouldn't have had to work so hard to-day," half grumbled Dan. "Well, we want to do something, don't we?" retorted Prescott. "What did we come out into the woods for? Just to sit around indoors and eat and sleep?" With the utmost industry it took a long time for the youngsters to fill the water barrel. "Now, we've enough for a week, anyway," remarked Dan, as he and Dick poured the last pailfuls into the barrel. "Perhaps enough for forty eight hours, though we don't want to be too sure," replied Prescott. "We want water enough for cleanliness, for cooking and for drinking. That will be quite a lot, I guess." The others now came in, for their outdoor exercise had taken up more than two hours of morning time. "Wood, next, I suppose," remarked Tom, gazing regretfully at the already diminished pile of wood. "No; there's wood enough to last until to-morrow; probably until the day after," Dave answered. "But do any of you fellows see the storm stopping?" queried Dick. "No," Dave and Tom both admitted. "Then, as there's no telling how long this good old blizzard will last, we'll do well to stack all the wood we can carry into this cabin." "Why not take a little rest first?" urged Dan. "I'll do my share of the work, all the time, but I'll admit that I'm tired just now." "We can divide into two shifts, then," suggested Dick. "As I don't feel very tired, I'll get into the first shift. Tom, do you feel plenty strong?" "Strong?" sniffed young Reade. "Humph! I'm ready, right now, to meet and vanquish the biggest Bermuda onion that you can produce." Dave had already started for the door. These three leaders of boydom in Gridley began to ply their shovels vigorously, starting from a point in the path already made to the spring. Working through drifts, in some instances more than six feet deep, it was slow work. After twenty minutes they went back to the cabin, Greg, Harry and Dan coming out to take up the work. Hen Dutcher was still toiling hard, for he had concluded that industry was the only way to save himself unpleasant happenings. "How soon are you fellows going to knock off and begin to think about dinner?" demanded Hen. "When we get good enough appetites, I suppose," laughed Dick. "Appetites?" sniffed Dutcher. "Huh! I could eat one side of a beef critter, right now." "Go out in the snow and help one of the fellows, then," advised Tom dryly. "After that you'll be able to eat the whole critter." "But when are you going to eat?" insisted Hen. "It's noon now." "We'll eat in another hour, I guess, if that suits the crowd," replied Dick. "I'm ready to eat right now," coaxed Dutcher. "But you don't belong to the crowd," retorted Dave Darrin grimly. "Unless you want to put up with bread you'll have to wait until the crowd is ready." "Potatoes will be the first thing ready for dinner, Hen," observed Prescott mildly. "As you're not doing anything outdoors, you might get busy peeling a big pan of potatoes." "See here," flared Dutcher, "I told you before that I'm no servant, and----" But Dick had risen, for the clock informed him that it was time to relieve the shift out in the deep snow. "Suit yourself, Hen," replied Prescott. "If you don't peel the potatoes, and some one else has to do it, then you won't eat any hot dinner to-day. That's flat." "Isn't Dick Prescott just a mean bully?" growled Hen to himself, as the "relief" stepped outdoors to resume work. "See that Hen keeps busy peeling and washing potatoes," Dick advised Greg in passing. Then the three rested shovelers took up the task. The path was now approaching the cook shack at the rear of the cabin. "Queer, isn't it," inquired Dave, "that we don't see a blessed thing of Mr. Fits to-day, and that there's no smoke going up his chimney." "Perhaps he has left these parts," suggested Tom, rather hopefully. "How could he?" Dave wanted to know. "Maybe he went last night." "I doubt if he could get away, even last night, at the hour when we turned him adrift," Darrin contended. "A man might have gone a quarter of a mile, but he couldn't go a whole mile." "He hasn't been out to-day, at any rate," declared Dick. "There isn't a trace of a track anywhere near the shack." "Let's dig up to that window and look in," suggested Dave. This was done. A few minutes later the three boys stood at the window, glancing in at all they could see of the small interior. Beyond the stove and chairs there appeared to be nothing to see. "Well, our dear friend Fits isn't on the premises--that's certain," remarked Dave Darrin. Which conclusion might be true, or, again, might not. _ |
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