“Reckon we can’t make it,” said the jolly, round-faced taxi driver. They could not stay there in the road. It was imperative that they should find a shelter somewhere. Not half a mile ahead there was a farmhouse in which they might all be made welcome and comfortable.
Again the man had proved to be correct. The boys agreed that forecasting the weather and the social geography of that region were in his line. He tried to run on again, but the starter refused to boost the engine and the battery nearly gave out. Bill insisted that they crank up and not exhaust the battery, else they would come to a dead stop. Gus and Tony lent a hand in turning the engine over and soon they were again bucking the drifts, stalling the engine two or three times within the next three hundred yards. A drift faced them that was altogether beyond hope, and before they drove into it, Bill insisted that they back over the thinner snow to the side of the road so that they would not be hit by another car if one should pull through such roads.
“Now then, you fellows!” said Bill, as usual assuming command where anything important was at stake. “Go on to the farmhouse and bunk, if they’ll have you. I’ll wrap up in these robes and be as warm as toast here in the car.” It was an enclosed tonneau, the window sashes fitted tightly and two big robes promised a little comfort.
“Yes, you will,” said Gus sarcastically.
“Not!” declared Tony. “We can easy carry you. You say it—pig-on-back?”
The taxi driver joined in and helped the two boys in this, also.
“Did you say there’s a farmhouse just on ahead, Mr.——?” asked Gus.
“Merritt is my name,” answered the driver.
“And a roadside is your station. You’re fast in the snow and you cannot go and you’re mad at all creation,” said Bill.
“You’re right, son, about bein’ stuck, but I ain’t mad. Reckon I stand to lose on this trip, but——”