“Never mind,” said Lucy. “They are dry.”
The chalet now smelled of drying clothes and drying leather. Over both stoves hung stockings and trousers and even underclothes, and behind them stood rows of boots. Outside, the wind was howling and shaking the entire house with every gust. It was almost as dark as if it had been evening, though it was only five o’clock, and Bob, peering through the steamed window pane, suddenly cried, “Hi! look quick—snow!” and opened the front door to dash out.
As he lifted the latch, the wind caught the door and blew it wide open, a great gust of snow swirling in, half across the room.
“Say, is this August first or January first?” Mr. Elkins demanded. “I thought we came to a summer resort, not Greenland.”
“Our mountains are just showing off for you a bit,” Mills smiled, as the young people and Joe, in spite of the gale, went out on the porch to see the snow-storm driving past.
But they were soon driven in, blowing on their fingers, and brushing the snow off their clothes.
“The man who built this old shack right here gets my vote,” Bob declared. “Say, ma, how’d you like to be on your prancing steed right now, up on top of the Pass, still seven miles from blighty? Eh, wot?”
“Thanks,” said Mrs. Jones. “I prefer it here.”
“I know!” Lucy said. “Let’s have afternoon tea.”
“All those in favor say aye—the ayes have it—it’s a vote—Joe, go to it,” cried Bob. “That’s the way they put a bill through in dad’s old Congress—just like that.”