Again they went ashore, and after struggling through two hundred yards of dense thickets reached the little nameless river from the west.
The change in their course brought them squarely into the eye of the wind, and they felt the difference instantly. The breeze had risen to half a gale; the whole sky had clouded. It was only an hour from sunset, but no one mentioned camping; they were resolved to go on while the light lasted. And suddenly Fred, struggling on with bent head against the wind, saw that the front of his blue sweater was growing powdered with white grains.
"We're caught, boys!" he exclaimed; and they stopped to look at the menacing sky.
Snow was drifting down in fine powder, and glancing over the ice past their feet. Straight down from the great Hudson Bay barrens the storm was coming, and the roar of the forest, now that they stopped to listen, was like that of the tempestuous sea.
"'Snow meal, snow a great deal,'" Macgregor quoted, with forced cheerfulness.
"Let's hope not!" exclaimed Maurice.
And Fred added: "Anyhow, let's get on while we can."
On they went, skating fast. As yet the snow was no hindrance, for it spun off the smooth ice as fast as it fell. It was the wind that troubled them, for it roared down the river channel with disheartening force.
It was especially discouraging to be checked thus on the last lap, but none of them thought of giving up. They settled doggedly to the task, although it took all their strength and wind to keep going. But all three were in pretty good training, and they stuck to it for more than an hour. The forest was growing dark, and the snow was coming faster. Then Maurice, rather dubiously, suggested a halt.
"Nonsense! We're good for another ten miles, at least!" cried Peter, who seemed tireless.