In the edge of the forest it was probably forty degrees below
zero. Within the coaches there still remained some little warmth. The
burning lamps radiated it and the presence of many people added to it.
But it was cold, and growing colder. A gray coating of congealed breath
covered the car windows. A few men had given their outer coats to women
and children. These men looked most frequently at their watches. The
adventure de luxe was becoming serious.
For the twentieth time a passing train-man was asked the same question.
"The good Lord only knows," he growled down into the face of the young
woman whose prettiness would have enticed the most chivalrous attention
from him earlier in the evening. "Engine and tender been gone three
hours and the divisional point only twenty miles up the line. Should
have been back with help long ago. Hell, ain't it?"
The young woman did not reply, but her round mouth formed a quick and
silent approbation of his final remark.
"Three hours!" the train-man continued his growling as he went on with
his lantern. "That's the hell o' railroading it along the edge of the
Arctic. When you git snowed in you're _snowed in_, an' there ain't no
two ways about it!"
He paused at the smoking compartment, thrust in his head for a moment,
passed on and slammed the door of the car after him as he went into the
next coach.
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