“The same,” answered Will; “and it’s as likely a place to spend Christmas in as you could find anywhere in western Massachusetts.”
“Can’t they dig out the snow?” cried Win.
“Oh, yes,” said the big brother; “but it’s not an easy thing to do; it’s got to be done with shovels, and it will take a long time.”
“How long?” asked Grace, ruefully.
“Nobody knows. But we shall be obliged to wait for more shovelers and wreckers to come up from Springfield, and I shouldn’t wonder at all if we stayed here twenty-four hours.”
“Can’t you telegraph to father?”
“I’m sorry to say I cannot. I asked about that, but the station man says the lines are down. No; there’s nothing to do but bunk down for the night as well as we can, and wait till deliverance comes. We’re in a regular fix and no mistake, and we’ve just got to make the best of it,” replied Will.
Just then the rear door of the car opened and a figure appeared that had not been seen hitherto upon the train. It was that of a stalwart man, perhaps fifty-five years old, with long white hair and beard, ruddy cheeks, and bright gray eyes. He wore a gray fur cap and a long gray overcoat, and looked enough like—Somebody that we are all thinking of about Christmas time to have been that Somebody’s twin brother.
“Good evenin’, friends!” he said, in a very jolly tone, as he shut the car door behind him. “Pleased to receive a call from so many on ye. Merry Christmas to ye all! ’T ain’t often that I kin welcome such a big Christmas party as this to my place!”
The good nature of the farmer was irresistible. The passengers all laughed.