Mr. Neelands laid a restraining hand on Bertie's arm. "Easy there, my friend," he said, his tone resembling Miss Morrison's in its commanding chilliness, "How far is it to the Watson farm?"
"Five miles in summer, four in winter," Bertie answered a little sulkily.
"You would call this winter, I suppose," said the traveller, looking out at the darkening street.
"I'd call it—oh, well, never mind what I'd call it—I'm always talking too much—call it anything you like." Bertie grew dignified and reserved. "Call it the first of July if you like! I don't care."
That is how it came that Mr. Neelands took the out-trail when all the signs were against travelling, but to his unaccustomed eye there was nothing to fear in the woolly grayness of the sky, nor in the occasional snowflake that came riding on the wind. The roads were hard-packed and swept clean by the wind, and the sensation of space and freedom most enjoyable.
Mr. Neelands as he walked filed away tidily in his mind the information received. There were valuable clues contained in the stable-boy's chatter, Which he would tabulate, regarding the lady of his quest. She was popular, approachable, gifted with a sense of humor, and perhaps disappointed in love. No clue was too small to be overlooked—and so, feeling himself one of the most deadly of sleuths, Mr. Neelands walked joyously on, while behind him there gathered one of the worst blizzards that the Souris Valley has known.
The storm began with great blobbery flakes of snow, which came elbowing each other down the wind, crossing and re-crossing, circling, drifting, whirling, fluttering, so dense and thick that the whole air darkened ominously, and the sun seemed to withdraw from the world, leaving the wind and the storm to their own evil ways.
The wind at once began its circling motions, whipping the snow into the traveller's face, blinding and choking him, lashing him mercilessly and with a sudden impish delight, as if all the evil spirits of the air had declared war upon him.
He turned to look back, but the storm had closed behind him, having come down from the northwest and overtaken him as he walked. His only hope was to go with it, for to face it was impossible, and yet it seemed to have no direction, for it blew up in his face; it fell on him; it slapped him, jostled him, pushed him, roared in his ears, smothering him, drowning his cries with malicious joy. No cat ever worried or harrassed a mouse with greater glee than the storm fiends that frolicked through the valley that day, took their revenge on the city man, with his pointed boots, his silk-lined gloves, his belted coat and gray fedora, as he struggled on, slipping, choking, falling and rising. It seemed to him like a terrible nightmare, in its sudden, gripping fury.
It pounded on his eyeballs until he was not sure but his eyes were gone; it filled his mouth and ears, and cold water trickled down his back. His gloves were wet through, and freezing, for the air grew colder every minute, and the terror of the drowning man came to him. He struggled on madly, like a steer that feels the muskeg closing around him. He did not think; he fought, with the same instinct that drives the cattle blindly, madly on towards shelter and food, when the storm lashes them and the hunger rage drives them on.