So the prisoners sat down and whiled away the time as best they might, in the relation of anecdotes, telling stories, and grumbling.  A few slept, and a large number tried to do so, without success.

The slow hand of Time, moving more slowly for them than they remembered it to have ever moved before, crept on to three o’clock, and still there was no prospect of relief and no incident of note save the arrival through the snow of a dozen men sent by the conductor.  They brought word that help was approaching from the nearest station where a sufficiently powerful locomotive could be obtained, and that they would probably be started on their way during the next forenoon.  These messengers also brought a small supply of provisions and a number of packs of cards, with the latter of which many of the passengers were soon busy.  They now resigned themselves to another night in the drift.

But at half after three occurred an incident that restored hope of a more speedy deliverance to a few of the captives.

Through the low pine-lands to the right ran a road which was very thoroughly protected from drifting snow by the overhanging trees, and along this road there now appeared two pair of oxen.  In front of the oxen were five men armed with wooden snow-shovels, with which they beat down and scattered the snow.  Behind all was a small, square box on runners.  It was very small and contained only one board seat.  Three persons could sit and three stand in it:  no more.

Upon the appearance of this squad of road-breakers with their team, three hearty cheers went up from the train.  They were immediately answered by the approach of the apparent leader of the expedition.  He was a small, active, spare old fellow, so incrusted with frozen snow, which hung all over him in tiny white pellets, as to resemble more an active, but rather diminutive white bear, than anything else known to Natural History.  He scrambled and puffed through the snow till he found a mounting-place upon an unseen fence, when he arose two or three feet above the surrounding surface, and spoke,—­

“There’s five on us, an’ two yoke.”

A pause.

“Two yoke yender, an’ five on us.”

“Well! supposing there is?” from the train.

“Five mile to town,” continued the White Bear, “an’ been sence nine this mornin’ gittin’ here.  Five times five is twenty-five, but, seein’ it’s you, I’ll call it twelve ‘n’ ’arf.”

“Call what ’twelve ‘n’ ‘arf,’ Sheep-Shanks?” from the train.

“That man don’t ride, nohow!  I’ve marked him!  I don’t cal’late to take no sarse this trip!  Take any six or eight for twelve dollars an’ fifty cents right straight to the tahvern!  Who bids?”

“I’ll give you fifteen dollars, my friend, to take myself, my wife, and three children to the village.”

It was Samson Newell who spoke.

“‘M offered fifteen,” cried the White Bear, pricking up his ears; “goin’ to the tahvern at fifteen; who says fifteen ‘n’ arf?”