CHAPTER XXV
A DECEMBER SNOW STORM
As the dusty wanderers wound slowly down into southern Georgia on a
mild bright day, a December snow storm broke with flake and flurry over
the Westfall farm. Whirling, crooning, pirouetting, the mad white
ghost swept down from the hills and hurled itself with a rattle of
shutters and stiffened boughs against the frozen valley. By nightfall
the wind was wailing eerily through the chimneys; but the checkerboard
panes of light one glimpsed through the trees of the Westfall lane were
bright and cheery.
In the comfortable sitting room of the farmhouse, Carl rose and drew
the shades, added a log to the great, open fireplace and glanced
humorously at his companion who was industriously playing Canfield.
"Well, Dick," said he, "on with your overcoat. Now that supper's done,
we've a tramp ahead of us."
Wherry rebelled.
"Oh, Lord, Carl!" he exclaimed. "Hear the wind!" He rose and drew
aside the shade. "The lane's thick with snow. Heavens, man, it's no
night for a tramp. Allan's coming in with the mail and he looks like a
snow man."
"You promised," reminded Carl inexorably. "How long since you've had a
drink, Dick?"
"Nine weeks!" said Wherry, his boyish face kindling suddenly with pride.
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