"Take you up," answered my wife, half laughing and half crying.

"Where are we?" I asked.

"I'm here. Haven't the remotest idea where you be," replied Mr.
Jones.

"You are a philosopher," I said, groping my way through the storm
toward his voice.

"I believe I was a big fool for tryin' to get home such a night as
this; but now that we've set about it, we'd better get there. That's
right. Scramble in and take the reins. Here's my mittens."

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to 'light and smell out the road. This is equal to any
blizzard I've read of out West."

"How far have we to go now?"

"Half a mile, as nigh as I can make out;" and we jogged on again.

"Are you sure you are not hurt?" Mousie asked me.

"Sure; it was like tumbling into a feather bed."

"Stop a bit," cried Mr. Jones. "There's a turn in the road here. Let
me go on a little and lay out your course."