Max and Phil awaited Bill’s findings.
“Huh!” he grunted, finally. “It’s abandoned! Funny place to leave a car. There’s not a decent shelter within several miles of this spot. I wouldn’t be surprised if, when the snow disappears, some bodies will be found on old Mountain Ridge.”
“We’d better uncover the license number so we can report it when we get back to town,” suggested Max.
“Good idea!” approved Bill.
“It’s M-617-503,” Phil announced, after more digging and kicking the crusted snow off the plate. “Better make a note of it.”
“That’s what I’m doing,” said Max, producing pencil and paper. “I’ll bet this wasn’t the only car that was stalled by the storm and has been buried in drifts. We’ll probably hear of plenty of others when we get news from outside.”
“Yeah,” grinned Bill, “the farmers are probably entertaining a lot of stranded tourists along the main roads. Well, I’m glad we didn’t find anybody in the car. It would have sort of put a damper on our outing.”
“You said it,” agreed Phil. “Well, the sooner we hit the shack now, the better I’ll like it. I’m chilled through myself.”
Arrived at the highest point on the ridge, the chums gazed down upon the ledge below which supported their shack. This ledge sloped off steeply as the hill descended into the valley with several smaller hills serving to diminish the sharp decline. The hillside was sparsely covered with trees and underbrush and presented a picturesque sight at the moment.
“Look!” cried Phil. “The snow’s cleared away in front of our shack ... and there’s smoke coming out the chimney!”