It was 5:45 before the machine gave its first sure signs of returning consciousness.  Miss Harding gave a glad cry and a quarter of an hour later when the red monster stood coughing in the muddy roadway those dry shoes were where they belonged.

With light hearts we waved farewell to the kindly old culvert and set our pace toward Woodvale.  It was our plan to take the first crossroad leading from the path of the tornado, and if possible make our way to Oak Cliff.  We passed a small hut which nestled in the shelter of the rocks.  In our mad rush I had not noticed it, but it seemed vacant.

A little farther on the road turns sharply to the right and re-enters the forest.  As we came to the top of a knoll I looked ahead and saw at a glance that we were again nearing the path of the tornado.  But I went on until the trunks of the stricken trees brought us to a halt.

“We are trapped, Miss Harding,” I said, after an examination which proved that even foot travel was well-nigh impossible.  “We are in the segment of a circle closed at its ends by fallen trees, and the worst of it is this:  there remains to us positively no outlet to the road.”

It was an exasperating situation.  We decided to return to the hut in the hope that its occupant—­if it had one—­might be able to show us a trail through the woods to the west.  As we came near the hut we saw smoke coming from its stove-pipe chimney.  It looked mighty cheerful.

I knocked on the door and a big, good-natured Norwegian opened it.  He is one of the watchmen employed by the Water Commissioners to keep trespassers off the lands reserved for water supply.

I briefly explained our predicament.  He informed me that there was no wagon road leading to the east or the west, and said, with a wide grin, that our auto could not possibly get out until the road was cleared.  Miss Harding joined us and made a despairing gesture when told the situation.

This man Peterson said that the tornado had missed his hut by a few hundred yards.  He was in Pine Top when it swept through the edge of that village, killing several persons.

“Where is the nearest railway station?” asked Miss Harding.

“Pine Top.”

“How far is it?” I asked.

Peterson scratched his head and said that to go around the fallen timber meant a journey of fully five miles.

“Will you guide us?” I asked.  “I will pay you,” I added, naming a liberal sum.

Peterson said he would when he had cooked and eaten his supper.  It was then after seven o’clock, and the thought occurred to us that we were hungry.  Peterson agreed to do the best he could for us in the way of a meal, and he did very well.

We were lamentably shy on dishes and knives and forks.  We had bacon and eggs, fried potatoes, bread and butter and some really excellent coffee.  There was only a single room in the hut, but it was clean and fairly tidy.  Peterson explained that he never had company, and apologised for his lack of tableware.