It was a miserable day for the lads. No matter what they talked about their conversation always drifted back to food. They could not avoid it, for food was the thing uppermost in their minds.
A hundred times that day one or the other went out of doors into the storm in the hope that they might discover some sign of its abatement, always to be met by the smothering drift, and when they arose the following morning snow was still falling heavily, though the wind had lost much of its force. They ate the half partridge remaining, but it served only to whet their appetites.
“Th’ snow’s fallin’ thicker’n ever,” announced David, after an inspection late in the afternoon.
“It just seems like I can’t stand un, I’m so hungry!” declared Andy. “Suppose now we start tomorrow marnin’, whatever. I’m thinkin’ we might make un,” he added hopefully.
“We never could make un,” David objected. “We’d perish. We’ll have t’ ’bide here till th’ weather clears. I’m as famished as you be, Andy, b’y, but we’ll have t’ put up with un.”
“It seems like I’d just die o’ hunger!” mourned Andy.
“Sometimes men goes without eatin’ for a week,” consoled David, “and it don’t kill un if they don’t give up to un. There’ll be some way out. Pop says there’s a way out’n every fix if you sticks to it and don’t get scared or give up.”
“Aye,” said Andy, with new courage, “I were thinkin’ of that th’ time I were caught out above th’ big mesh, and then I makes a shelter and I’m all right.”
The thought consoled them both, and though still they talked of food, it was now in the manner of planning great feasts when they should reach home.
“We’ll have Margaret cook us a fine big mess o’ pork, and we’ll eat all we wants, with bread and molasses t’ go with un,” suggested David.