“Say, is there any place we can put in here? We’ve been on that road all night.”
“Drive in onto the barn floor, and come in and warm yourselves,” said Mrs. Whiting.
“Rogers,” said the man who had spoken, addressing the other, “if I ever get into a place that’s warm, I’ll stay there till spring.”
Rogers laid the lines down on the dashboard of the cutter and stepped stiffly out into the snow. He swept the group with a sharp, a praising eye, and asked:
“Who’s the one to talk to here?”
Jeffrey Whiting stepped forward naturally and replied with another question.
“What do you want?”
Rogers, a large, square-faced man, with a stubby 49 grey moustache and cold grey eyes, looked the youth over carefully as he spoke.
“I want a man that knows this country and can get around in it in this season. I was brought up in the country, but I never saw anything like this. I wouldn’t take a trip like this again for any money. I can’t do this sort of thing. I want a man that knows the country and the people and can do it.”
“Well, I’m going away now,” said Jeffrey slowly, “but Uncle Catty here knows the people and the country better than most and he can go anywhere.”