“Hollo! where’s Hamilton?” exclaimed Harry; “I saw him beside me not five minutes ago.”
The accountant gave a loud shout, but there was no reply. Indeed, nothing short of his own stentorian voice could have been heard at all amid the storm.
“There’s nothing for it,” said Harry, “but to search at once, else he’ll wander about and get lost.” Saying this, he began to retrace his steps, just as a brief lull in the gale took place.
“Hollo! don’t you hear a cry, Harry?”
At this moment there was another lull; the drift fell, and for an instant cleared away, revealing the bewildered Hamilton, not twenty yards off, standing like a pillar of snow, in mute despair.
Profiting by the glimpse, Harry rushed forward, caught him by the arm, and led him into the partial shelter of the forest.
Nothing further befell them after this. Their route lay in shelter all the way to the fort. Poor Hamilton, it is true, took one or two of his occasional plunges by the way, but without any serious result—not even to the extent of stuffing his nose, ears, neck, mittens, pockets, gun-barrels, and everything else with snow, because, these being quite full and hard packed already, there was no room left for the addition of another particle.