The Four White Days

The Four White Days
by Fred M. White
A Tale of London In the Grip of an Arctic Winter--Showing the Danger
Any Winter might Bring from Famine, Cold, and Fire.

I
THE editor of The Daily Chat wondered a little vaguely why he had
come down to the office at all. Here was the thermometer down to 11O
with every prospect of touching zero before daybreak, and you can't fill
a morning paper with weather reports. Besides, nothing was coming in
from the North of the Trent beyond the curt information that all
telegraphic and telephonic communication beyond was impossible.
There was a huge blizzard, a heavy fall of snow nipped hard by the
terrific frost and--silence.
To-morrow--January 25th--would see a pretty poor paper unless
America roused up to a sense of her responsibility and sent something
hot to go on with. The Land's End cables often obliged in that way.
There was the next chapter of the Beef and Bread Trust, for instance.
Was Silas X. Brett going to prove successful in his attempt to corner
the world's supply? That Brett had been a pawnbroker's assistant a year
ago mattered little. That he might at any time emerge a penniless
adventurer mattered less. From a press point of view he was good for
three columns.
The chief "sub" came in, blowing his fingers. The remark that he was
frozen to the marrow caused no particular sympathy.
"Going to be a funeral rag to-morrow," the editor said curtly.
"That's so," Gough admitted cheerfully. "We've drawn a thrilling

picture of the Thames impassable to craft--and well it might be after a
week of this Arctic weather. For days not a carcase or a sack of flour
has been brought in. Under the circumstances we were justified in
prophesying a bread and meat famine. And we've had our customary
gibe at Silas X. Brett. But still, it's poor stuff."
The editor thought he would go home. Still he dallied, on the off
chance of something turning up. It was a little after midnight when he
began to catch the suggestion of excitement that seemed to be
simmering in the sub-editor's room. There was a clatter of footsteps
outside. By magic the place began to hum like a hive.
"What have you struck, Gough?" the editor cried.
Gough came tumbling in, a sheaf of flimsies in his hand.
"Brett's burst," he gasped. "It's a real godsend, Mr. Fisher. I've got
enough here to make three columns. Brett's committed suicide."
Fisher slipped out of his overcoat. Everything comes to the man who
waits. He ran his trained eyes over the flimsies; he could see his way to
a pretty elaboration.
"The danger of the corner is over," he said, later, "but the fact remains
that we are still short of supplies; there are few provision ships on the
seas, and if they were close at hand they couldn't get into port with all
this ice about. Don't say that London is on the verge of a famine, but
you can hint it."
Gough winked slightly and withdrew. An hour later and the presses
were kicking and coughing away in earnest. There was a flaming
contents bill, so that Fisher went off drowsily through the driving snow
Bedford Square way with a feeling that there was not much the matter
with the world after all.
It was piercingly cold, the wind had come up from the east, the steely
blue sky of the last few days had gone.

Fisher doubled before the wind that seemed to grip his very soul. On
reaching home he shuddered as he hung over the stove in the hall.
"My word," he muttered as he glanced at the barometer. "Down
half-an-inch since dinner time. And a depression on top that you could
lie in. Don't ever recollect London under the lash of a real blizzard, but
it's come now."
A blast of wind, as he spoke, shook the house like some unreasoning
fury.

II
It was in the evening of the 24th of January that the first force of the
snowstorm swept London. There had been no sign of any abatement in
the gripping frost, but the wind had suddenly shifted to the east, and
almost immediately snow had commenced to fall. But as yet there was
no hint of the coming calamity.
A little after midnight the full force of the gale was blowing. The snow
fell in powder so fine that it was almost imperceptible, but gradually
the mass deepened until at daybreak it lay some eighteen inches in the
streets. Some of the thoroughfares facing the wind were swept bare as a
newly reaped field, in others the drifts were four or five feet in height.
A tearing, roaring, blighting wind was still blowing as the grey