The snow came down again in a great white blot, Beddoes’ bliz, full scale and strength. Brett, watching his windscreen wipers slide jerkily to and fro, wondered how soon they would stop their squeaky protests and go on strike. Woods flanked the road, as he’d been able to see in that clear half minute, so the branch to Pettinge must be near. He could no more hope to see the far side than the moon. He ground on, in a gear which depressed him. But it was his low crawl which saved him from missing the almost obliterated sign: Pettinge 2.

To prospect for traffic was pointless. The snow was a ready-made shroud, and only speed could serve him. In one sweep he cut right across the road. The wheels slipped, and he couldn’t find the verge. Then he saw that he’d pulled into the mouth of the lane itself, straightened too quickly, and felt another skid. He didn’t like it above half, but he was committed; the land was too narrow to turn in. He went on, and down, through snow which flew so stiflingly against the windows that he wanted all the time to be coughing. The engine was sighing in a plaintive fashion. He glanced at his speed. Ten! Even that was reckless. The road dipped, and turned. Or did it? He realised that he was encased. The window cleaners had stopped, stuck, struck; and the screen had crusted in a couple of seconds. He opened the window, leaned out, and quickly withdrew. All that had gained him was blindness, suffocation and a soaked collar. There was nothing to be done but stop, get out, and try to set the flippers to rights.

He pulled in to the left; and the car lurched and sank. He heard himself utter the most odd muted squawk as he smacked on the brake, then the handbrake. Bog, quicksand, jelly, flashed through his mind before the obvious word came. A drift. He had tipped into a drift.

He put the car quickly into reverse, eased out the handbrake, and ground his right foot to the floor. The engine uttered a petulant whine. The wheels were spinning to no effect. He tried again, with the result, it seemed to him, that the car settled at a slightly steeper angle. He stopped and sat still for some seconds, venting his feelings in his very worst curses, vehement and monosyllabic. Then he scrambled over the back of the seat. He pulled his scarf from round his neck, twisted it into some sort of protection for his head and ears, and turned up the collar of his coat. Opening the rear door, he stretched out a leg to test the depth of the snow. At this point it lay only about four inches deep. With a groan and a final imprecation he got out of the car, shut the door, and groped towards the radiator.