According to Sam’s reckoning the trail leading from the branch railroad to the camps crossed the district in which they were, but they had not stumbled upon it. Still, it could be missed easily; for it was little traveled, and such drifts as were forming would quickly hide its traces. Orkney thought that Peter Groche might have taken the short-cut on his last trip from Plainville, but did not believe that it had been used by anybody else in a week. Presumably the tote road was to their left, but its distance was indefinite. As for turning back--well, Sam considered the idea but briefly. It would involve not only a hard tramp in the teeth of the storm but also confession of failure. Besides, to find the camp would be no easy matter; for in many places the party’s own tracks undoubtedly had been blotted out. In a general way Step, as well as Sam, had counted upon keeping the wind at their backs; but in one of the pauses for rest the Shark called attention to the fact that his spectacles were dimmed by a thin layer of snow on the lenses. “Been driving straight in my face for the last three minutes,” he declared. “We’re utterly twisted, or the gale’s shifting every which way.” “Well, I’m doing my best,” Step insisted. “Say, though! If you’re so clever in turning a watch into all sorts of things, make it a compass, won’t you? Seems to me I’ve heard it can be done.” “Certainly it can,” said the Shark. “Very simple method. Only you’ve got to be able to see the sun. No chance of that now.” There was dismal murmur of assent. Overhead there was no break in the dark clouds. When the next halt was made, debate on the direction of the wind was resumed. It led to agreement that, as the Shark’s phrase was, it was shifting every which way. There was agreement, too, that its force was waxing. And, having reached these not very cheering conclusions, they could do nothing but trudge on. Half an hour later they had impressive evidence of the danger of their plight. Herman Boyd, falling out again to retie his snow-shoes, had such difficulty with the stubborn rawhide that he lost sight of his companions, and, when he tried to overtake them, discovered that their tracks, made but a few minutes before, had been obliterated by the driving snow. Meanwhile the others, alarmed by his absence, had turned back, in open order, at Sam’s suggestion; but, even with this precaution, covering as much ground as possible, they nearly missed Herman. Luckily the Trojan, on the extreme left of the line, finally heard a faint shout, and answering lustily, had the relief, presently, of seeing the wanderer flounder out of the heart of a blinding cloud of flakes. Then came a council of war. There must be no more straggling. Whatever happened, all must keep in touch.