eight o'clock
It was about two o'clock in the morning when we finally gave up all hope of getting along any farther , at least for some hours , and Fielding and I lay down in our berths with the hope that the storm would abate before daybreak , so that a snow-plough might reach us and clear the line , in time to enable us to reach our homes for the Christmas dinner . But as I lay awake and listened to the shrieks of the storm , the presentiment grew upon me that the chances of our spending the best part of Christmas Day in our contracted abode were depressingly promising . These thoughts , coupled with the knowledge that our car was but poorly provisioned , and that we were without a cook -- having let that functionary stop off for Christmas Day at the station beyond which we were stranded -- were in nowise conducive to my falling asleep more readily than was my wont . I awoke a little after eight o'clock , and was just about to hurry into my clothes to see what the weather was like , when I suddenly decided there was no need of any undue haste -- the roar of that festive wind could have been heard a mile away . When I did reach the body of the car and looked out of the window , a sight met my gaze that might have made a less sinful man , than one who had spent the best part of his life on railways , give vent to comments that I am persuaded would not appear quite seemly in print . Our car was wedged well-nigh up to the windows in a huge drift , while the wind , which had whipped the harassed snow into fragments as fine as dust , caught up great clouds of the dismembered flakes , and with triumphant shrieks drove them against the panes of glass . As I stood glaring at this inspiring picture , Fielding joined me and said , as he , too , feasted his eyes on the scene : `` A villainous day !