Lunch over, the fire was carefully put out, every trace of it buried deep under the snow, and they drove on. They stopped to get two more piles of logs, and then drove out without turning.
“It’s a longer way around, but the road’s pretty,” said Mr. Meade, who seemed to be having as good a time as any of the children.
The six sat perched up on the logs—having solemnly promised not to fall off—and pretended they were explorers going through a new country.
“I wonder if it snowed in River Bend,” said Ward.
“Probably not,” Mr. Meade answered. “Your town is kind of protected, and you don’t get near the sweep of weather we do. It’s always from three to five degrees colder up here at the lake than it is down with you.”
Polly looked around suddenly at Ward.
“I thought Artie was sitting next to you,” she said.
“He—why, he was!” cried Ward. “He must have fallen off! Mr. Meade! Oh, Mr. Meade!”
The farmer looked up calmly. He was sitting down under the logs, which projected beyond his head.
“Well?” he inquired pleasantly.