"Very well then, my boy, we'll start; and if bad weather catches us, we'll have to do the best we can."
The distance between the Opeongo shanty and the depot, as the crow flies, was fifty miles; but the circuitous route that was necessary in order to avoid ranges of rocky hills and impassable gullies made it full half as long again, and, in view of the state of the road, Maynard calculated that two days might be required to make their destination. Accordingly they set out in the morning of the second day before Christmas.
It hardly needed the practised eye of a wood-ranger to foretell a coming change in the weather.
The sun's bright face was hidden behind a dense veil of sullen clouds; the air, that had been so crisp and clear, seemed dank and heavy like a dungeon's; and both man and beast moved about in a listless way, as if every movement was an effort.
More than once the superintendent's mind misgave him ere they had gone many miles. He was naturally a cautious, far-seeing man, not disposed to run unnecessary risks, although utterly regardless of personal peril in any matter of duty.
Not that he felt any concern on his own account; but he would have felt much easier in his mind had Harry been persuaded to stay at the shanty.
Yet how could he reasonably expect that, when he himself was pushing on to the depot?
Harry's argument, that if the superintendent could stand the storm he could also, was not easy to answer, and it prevailed.
"If this confounded road was only in better shape, we might get there to-night," said Maynard impatiently that afternoon as the sleigh slowly toiled up a steep ascent, the horses sinking above their fetlocks in the fine dry snow at every step.
Had their way been as well broken as a city street they might indeed have accomplished this feat, but under the circumstances the best they could hope for was to reach the depot early on Christmas eve.