“Look there, Harry! Just in the middle of that dark bit like a camel’s hump. Isn’t that something white?”
“Which one?”
He pointed, but I couldn’t make out anything.
Then he laid the telescope on it and bade me look.
I looked through the glass, and there, sure enough, just below the dark cloud showed a faint whiteness that might be cloud or might be—could it be?—the longed-for snow.
The cloud-bank was slowly changing in shape from moment to moment. The big dark cloud that Wrexham had indicated was slowly moving to one side. But the white patch seemed not to shift. Then for a fleeting instant it showed clear, a sharp point of blue-veined white that could be no cloud.
“I think you’re right, John,” I said as I sat up. “Look!”
He glued his eye to the telescope, gave a whoop, hurriedly fished out his compass, and laid it on the line of the telescope.
“See,” he said, “bearing of fifty-six degrees. We’re not far out, old man, and if that’s not snow, then I’ve never seen it.”
We shouted at the top of our voices to Forsyth below, “Snow! Snow! Snow!”