The others waded after Mouser until they stood abreast of the locomotive.
It was a scene of wintry desolation that lay stretched before their eyes. As far as they could see, they could make out little but the white blanket of snow, above which the trees tossed their black and leafless branches. Paths and fences were blotted out, and except for the thin column of smoke that rose from a farmhouse half a mile away, they might have been in an uninhabited world of white.
“Looks like Snowtop, sure enough,” muttered Mouser, as he looked around.
The conductor and the engineer, together with the trainmen, had gathered in a little group near the engine, and the boys edged closer in order to hear what they were saying.
“It’s no use,” the grizzled old engineer was remarking. “The jig’s up as far as Seventy-three is concerned. I tried to get the old girl to buck the drifts, but she couldn’t do it.”
The boys thought it was no wonder that Seventy-three had gone on strike, as they noted that her cowcatcher was buried while the drift rose higher than her stack.
“It’s too bad,” rejoined the conductor, shaking his head in a perplexed fashion. “I’ve been worrying about the gulch ever since it came on to snow so hard. It wouldn’t have mattered so much if it hadn’t been for the wind. That’s slacked up some now, but the damage is done already.”
“What are you going to do, boss?” asked one of the trainmen.
“You’ll have to go back to the last station and wire up to the Junction for them to send the snow-plough down and clear the track,” responded the conductor. “Get a hustle on now and ask them to send it along in a hurry.”
The trainman started back at as fast a pace as the snow permitted, and the engineer climbed back into his cab to get out of the wind while waiting for help. The conductor started back for the smoking car, and as he went past, Bobby ventured to speak to him.