“You know, Robinson Crusoe lived in a cave, and in a hut. And he was all alone till he got some goats and a Man Friday.”
“We might have brought Billy Bumps along,” said Dot thoughtfully.
“I guess I wouldn’t want to live with an old goat,” Tess observed, with scorn.
They had no means of measuring the passage of time, and of course it seemed that “hours and hours” must have passed before Sammy tried to look out through the opening the first time.
And this was no easy work. The snow had gathered so quickly and packed down so hard upon the sled that the boy could scarcely raise it. Finally, by backing under the sled and rising up with it on his shoulders, the sturdy little fellow broke through the drift.
“I got it!” he shouted back to Tess and Dot. “But, oh, Je-ru-sa-lem! ain’t it snowin’ though? Bet it never snowed so hard before. I guess we’ll have to stay here till they dig us out.”
“Oh, Sammy! All night?” gasped Dot.
“Well, I don’t know about that. But until this old snow stops, anyway.”
He, nor the little girls, scarcely appreciated the fact that the worst blizzard of the winter had broken over that territory, and that trails and paths were being utterly obliterated. The keenest scented dog, and the most experienced woodsman, could not have traced the three children to their present shelter.
Sammy came in and fixed the sled again to keep out the snow. He felt pretty serious—for him. Sammy Pinkney was not in the habit of looking for the worst to happen. Quite the contrary.