In the meantime the weather had been growing steadily colder, and they found it necessary to invest in a second-hand robe to keep them warm when driving.
“It looks a bit like snow,” remarked Andy, as they drove out of the city one morning. “I hope we don’t catch it before we reach where we are 275 going to. A snowstorm in the mountains is not a very pleasant thing to encounter.”
“We must run our chances,” returned Matt, and Billy was urged forward, and soon the city outskirts were left far behind.
The sun had shone for awhile, but about nine o’clock it went under a heavy cloud. Then it began to get slightly warmer, and Andy was certain that snow was coming.
His prediction was fulfilled. By ten o’clock it was snowing furiously, and by eleven the ground was covered to the depth of half a foot.
“That settles it; we can’t make Scranton to-day, nor even Pittston,” said Matt. “We had better hunt up some sort of a house with a barn attached, where we can put up.”
But Andy was for continuing the journey, so onward they went, until at last, just before the noon hour, they found the road getting too heavy for Billy. They went down into a hollow which the falling snow had covered, and there the wagon remained, despite every effort to budge it.
They looked around in some dismay. Not even a house nor a building of any sort was in sight.
“This is a pretty pickle,” muttered Andy. “I wish we had followed your advice and sought shelter.”