The last two weeks before the Alaska Juvenile Race, as the Nome Kennel Club had announced it, were busy ones, not only for the boys who were to actually take part in it, but for all of their friends as well. For those who had not teams for the event had more than likely loaned a dog, a sled or a harness to one of the contestants, and consequently felt a deep personal interest in all incidents connected with the various entries.

To Ben Edwards the time was full of diversions, for every afternoon on his way home from school he stopped at the Kennel to curry and brush Baldy or help George and Danny in the care of the other dogs whose condition was of such moment now.

When George felt that he should give Spot special training to fit him for his new position as leader, or took Queen out under the strict discipline he knew would be necessary to prepare her for the ordeal, he would ask Ben to hitch Baldy to one of the small sleds and give him a run.

Baldy’s nature had always expressed itself best in action, and Ben was delighted with the ease with which he adjusted himself to serious sled work. There were no more romps, no more games, but his pace became even and steady, and he required no threats and no inducements to make him do his best.

“There’s one thing about Baldy,” admitted George freely, “you don’t have t’ jolly him along all the time. Why, even with Spot I have to say ‘Snowbirds’ an’ ‘Rabbits’ every little while when I want him to go faster, an’ then you should see him mush. You know that’s what Father says t’ Tom, Dick ‘an’ Harry, an’ Rover an’ Irish. It’s fine with any of ‘em that’s got bird-dog blood, an’ you know Spot’s part pointer. O’ course they don’t have t’ really see snowbirds an’ rabbits, but they just love t’ hear about ’em, an’ begin t’ look ahead right away. An’ if they do happen t’ see ’em, they pretty nearly jump out o’ their harness, they’re so crazy for ’em.”

“Baldy’s part bird-dog, too,” said Ben, “but I been watchin’ him close, an’ it ain’t anythin’ outside that makes him want t’ go; it’s more like he feels a sort o’ duty about doin’ the very best he kin fer any one that’s usin’ him. He’s allers willin’ t’ do more’n his share; an’ he’s lots happier when he’s workin’ hard than when he’s just lyin’ idle in the stable, or bein’ trotted out by Matt fer a walk.”

“I wisht I was like that,” muttered Danny gloomily. “That bein’ happiest when you’re workin’ hard must be great; but I guess it’s only dogs an’ mebbe some men that’s like that. I don’t know o’ any boys that’s got such feelin’s.”

When the day of the Boys’ Race arrived, a day clear, and beautiful, and only a degree or two below zero, it seemed as if all of Nome had decided to celebrate the momentous occasion; going in crowds to the starting place, which was a broad, open thoroughfare on the outskirts of town. Those especially interested in the individual teams gathered at the various kennels to see the dogs harnessed and the young drivers prepared for their test as trailsmen in the coming struggle.

It was Saturday, and a general holiday, and Ben’s mother had given him permission to go to the Kennel early; so that when George and Dan arrived they found their dogs smooth and shining from the energetic grooming that Ben had given them.

“It’s awful good of you, Ben,” said George appreciatively. “Danny an’ me came in plenty o’ time t’ do it ourselves, an’ Matt said he’d help us too; an’ now you’ve got ’em lookin’ finer’n silk. I’ll bet even Father’ll say they’re as fine as a Sweepstakes Team, an’ he’s mighty partic’lar, I can tell you. But I don’t see how you got Queen t’ stand for it.”

“I talked to ‘er jest the way you do, an’ then walked straight up to ’er so’s she’d see I wasn’t afeared. Moose Jones says it’s no use tryin’ t’ do anything with a dog that knows you’re scared. He told me the reason your father made a good dog out o’ Jack McMillan was because he wasn’t afeared of him, an’ give the dog an even break in the terrible fight they had.”

“Father always does that,” responded George proudly. “He believes you got t’ show a dog once for all that you’re master of him at his very best. If you tie a dog o’ McMillan’s spirit, an’ beat him t’ make him obey, he always thinks he hadn’t a fair chance. But if you can show him that he can’t down you, no matter how good a scrap he puts up, he’ll respect you an’ like you the way Jack does Dad.”

“I don’t believe me an’ Queen’d ever have any trouble now,” observed Ben thoughtfully. “Some way I guess we kinda understand each other better’n we did before.”

“Well, it sure shows you got courage,” exclaimed Dan admiringly. “I wouldn’t touch that snarlin’ brute o’ George’s, not if I could win this race by it, an’ you know what I’d do fer that.” He examined Judge, Jimmie, and Pete, with profound satisfaction. They were compactly built, of an even tan color, short haired, bob-tailed, and all about the same size, being brothers in one litter. Their sturdy legs suggested strength and their intelligent faces spoke of amiability as well as alertness. They were indeed worthy sons of the fleet hound mother Mego whose puppies rank so high in the racing world beyond the frozen sea. “They just glisten, Ben. You must ‘a’ worked hard t’ get ’em lookin’ as smooth an’ shinin’ as the fur neck-pieces the girls wear.”

“O’ course I wanted t’ git Baldy ready fer his first race; an’ doin’ little things fer the other dogs is about the only way I kin pay everybody round here fer all they’re doin’ fer him.”

Baldy was fast learning not to despise the detail that had made the new life so irksome before he realized how necessary it is in a large Kennel; and he now stood patiently waiting for his harness, while long discussions took place as to the adjustment of every strap, and the position of every buckle.

“Scotty” and Matt had come in to be ready with counsel and service, if necessary; then the Allan girls and many of the children from the neighborhood arrived, and later the Woman appeared with the Big Man whom Baldy some way associated invariably with her, and a yellow malamute whom Baldy invariably associated with him.

The Big Man always spoke pleasantly to the dogs, and had won Baldy’s approval by not interfering as did the Woman in Kennel affairs; and the malamute the Yellow Peril, as the Woman had named him was plainly antagonistic to the Racers, at whom he growled with much enthusiasm. And so Baldy was glad to see the Big Man and the Peril amongst the acquaintances and strangers who were thronging into the place.

George brought out a miniature racing sled his most prized possession and a perfect reproduction of the one “Scotty” used in the Big Races, being built strongly, but on delicate lines. Danny pulled another, only a trifle less rakish, beside it. They were conversing in low tones. “We got pretty nearly half an hour t’ wait, Dan, an’ it’s fierce t’ have all these people that don’t know a blame thing about racin’ standin’ round here givin’ us fool advice. Why, if we was t’ do what they’re tellin’, we’d be down an’ out before we reached Powell’s dredge on Bourbon Creek. Most of ’em don’t know any more ’bout dogs ’n I do ’bout ’bout

“’Rithmetic,” suggested Danny promptly.

“Well, anyway, we got t’ run our own race. Dad says there ain’t any cut an’ dried rules for dog racin’ beyond knowin’ your dogs, an’ usin’ common sense. Each time it’s different, ‘cordin’ t’ the dogs, the distance, the trail an’ the weather. An’ you have t’ know just what it’s best t’ do whatever happens, even if it never happened before.”

“Gee,” sighed Danny heavily, “winnin’ automobile races an’ horse races is takin’ candy from babies besides this here dog racin’. I hadn’t any idea how much there was to it till we begun t’ train the dogs, an’ talk it over with your father. I was awful nervous last night, I don’t believe I slept hardly any, worryin’ about the things that can go wrong, no matter how careful you are.”

“I didn’t sleep any, either. I got t’ thinkin’ about Queen hatin’ Eskimos, an’ chasin’ ’em every time she gets a chance. It ’ud be a terrible thing if she saw one out on the tundra, an’ left the trail t’ try and ketch him; or if she smelled some of ’em in the crowd an’ made a break for ’em just when she ought t’ be ready t’ start. An’ you know there’s bound t’ be loads of Eskimos, ’cause they’d rather see a dog race than eat a seal-blubber banquet.”

“That’s so; but Spot is good friends with all the natives ’round town, an’ he’s stronger’n Queen, an’ wouldn’t leave the trail for anything but snowbirds or rabbits, so he’d hold ‘er down. An’ I guess Baldy’d be kinda neutral, ‘cause he don’t pay attention t’ Eskimos or anything when he’s workin’. I never saw a dog mind his own business like Baldy. That’s worth somethin’ in a race.” The inactivity was becoming unbearable. “George, if you and Ben’ll get the dogs into harness, I’ll go an’ see what’s doin’ with some of the others. It’ll sort o’ fill in time.”

Ben and George hitched the dogs to the respective sleds after Spot, in the exuberant joy of a prospective run, had dashed madly about, barking boisterously, a thing absolutely prohibited in that well-ordered household. “Scotty” and Matt refrained from all criticism of George’s leader, knowing that both the boy and dog were unduly excited by the noisy, laughing groups surrounding them. Queen, while she waited with very scant patience for the strange situation, diverted herself by nipping viciously at any one who went past, and Baldy stood quiet and different save when Ben Edwards was near, or “Scotty” spoke kindly to him.

Mego’s sons, as was natural with such a parent, and with Allan’s training since they were born, behaved with perfect propriety; and there were many compliments for Dan’s team, which manifested a polite interest in the development of affairs.

Shortly Dan returned with somewhat encouraging information about the rival teams.

“Bob’s got three dogs better matched ‘n yours as t’ size,” he remarked judicially, “but his leader, old Nero, ’s most twelve, you remember, ’nd wants t’ stop an’ wag his tail, an’ give his paw t’ every kid that speaks to him. Bill’s got some bully pups, but his sled’s no good; it’s his mother’s kitchen chair nailed onto his skiis. Jimmie’s team’s a peach, an’ so’s his sled; but Jim drives like a like a girl,” finished Mr. Kelly scornfully, with the tone of one who disposes of that contestant effectively and finally. “For looks an’ style, I can tell you, George, there ain’t any of ’em that’s a patch on my team. Some Pupmobile!”

He glanced proudly at the wide-awake dogs who showed their breeding and education at every turn, and then toward George’s ill-assorted collection: Spot, rangy, raw-boned, and awkward, Queen fretful and mutinous, and Baldy so stolid that it was evident he was receiving no inspiration from the enthusiasm about him.

“Of course you can beat me drivin’ without half tryin’, George, an’ if Spot’s feet wasn’t so big, an’ Queen didn’t have such a rotten disposition, an’ Baldy knew he was alive, it ’ud be a regular cinch for you. But the way things is, believe me, I’m goin’ t’ give you a run for your money, with good old Mego’s ‘houn’ dogs.’”

Both George and Dan had, of course, like all small boys in Nome, at one time or another, made swift and hazardous dashes of a few hundred yards, in huge chopping bowls purloined from their mothers’ pantries; and drawn by any one dog that was available for the instant, and would tamely submit to the degradation. An infantile amusement, they felt now, in the face of this real Sporting Event that was engaging the attention of the entire town. And to complete the feeling that this was indeed no mere child’s play, the Woman came to them with two cups of hot tea to warm them up, and steady their nerves on the trail. This they graciously accepted and drank, in spite of its very unpleasant taste; for “Scotty” always drank tea while giving Matt the last few necessary directions before a race.

“All ready, boys, time to leave,” called the Big Man cheerily. “Peril and I will go ahead, and charge the multitudes so that you can get through.”

The Allan girls pressed forward hurriedly to give George two treasured emblems of Good Luck a four-leaf clover in a crumpled bit of silver paper, and a tiny Billiken in ivory, the cherished work of Happy Jack, the Eskimo Carver.

Equally potent charms in the form of a rabbit’s foot, and a rusty horseshoe were tendered Danny by his staunch supporters.

At the big door of the Kennel the boys stopped for a final word. “We won’t make a sound if we should have to pass on the trail,” said George. “We’ll be as silent as the dead,” an expression recently acquired, and one which seemed in keeping with these solemn moments. “All the dogs know our voices, an’ if we should speak they might stop just like they have when we’ve been exercisin’ ’em, an’ wanted t’ talk things over. We’ll pull the hoods of our parkas over our heads, an’ turn our faces away so’s not to attract ’em. Dan, I do want t’ win this race awful bad, ‘cause o’ my father mostly, but you bet I hope you’ll come in a close second.”

“Same to you, George,” and they made their way to the middle of the street, where they fell in behind the Big Man and the Peril, and were flanked by the Woman and “Scotty,” Matt and Ben, with most of the others who had waited for this imposing departure.

The other entries had already arrived at the starting point, where there was much confusion and zeal in keeping the bewildered dogs in order. It was a new game, and they did not quite comprehend what was expected of them.

At last, however, the Timekeeper, and Starter, assisted by various members of the Kennel Club, had cleared a space into which the first entry was led with great ceremony. It was Bob, with the cordial, if ancient, Nero in the lead.

They were to leave three minutes apart; the time of each team being computed from the moment of its departure till its return, as is always done in the Great Races.

The Timekeeper stood with his watch in his hand, and the Starter beside him. Bob, eager for the word, spoke soothingly to the dogs to keep them quiet. He was devoutly hoping that Nero would not discover any intimate friend in the crowd and insist upon a formal greeting; for Nero’s affability was a distinct disadvantage on such an occasion.

At last the moment came, and the Starter’s “Go” was almost simultaneous with Bob’s orders to his leader, whose usual dignified and leisurely movements were considerably hastened by the thunderous applause of the spectators.

It was a “bully get-away,” George and Dan agreed, and only hoped that theirs would be as satisfactory.

Bill followed with equal ease, and equal approbation.

Jim, justifying Dan’s earlier unfavorable report, lost over a minute by letting his dogs become tangled up in their harness, and then coaxing them to leave instead of commanding.

“Wouldn’t that jar you?” whispered Dan disgustedly. “Why, your sister Helen does better’n that in those girly-girly races, even if she does say she’d rather get a beatin’ herself than give one to a dog.”

But the general public looked with more lenient eyes upon such mistakes, and Jim left amidst the same enthusiasm that had sped the others on their way.

When Dan and his dogs lined up there was much admiration openly expressed.

“Looks like a Sweepstakes team through the wrong end of the opry glasses, don’t it?” exclaimed Matt with justifiable pride to Black Mart Barclay, who happened to be next him.

Mart scrutinized the entry closely. “Not so bad. Them Mego pups is allers fair lookers an’ fair go-ers, so fur’s I ever heered t’ the contrary,” he admitted grudgingly.

There was an air of repressed but pleasurable expectation about the little “houn’ dogs,” as they patiently waited for their signal to go. Their racing manners were absolutely above reproach. Unlike Nero, they quite properly ignored the merely social side of the event, and were evidently intent upon the serious struggle before them; and equally unlike Queen and Baldy, they showed neither the peevishness of the one, nor the apathy of the other.

By most people the race was practically conceded to Dan before the start.

It seemed an endless time to George before it was his turn; but when he finally stepped into place, the nervousness that had made the wait almost unbearable disappeared completely. The hood of his fur parka had dropped back, and his yellow hair, closely cropped that it should not curl and “make a sissy” of him, gleamed golden in the sunlight above a face that, usually rosy and smiling, was now pale and determined.

In that far world “outside,” George Allan would have been at an age when ringlets and a nurse-maid are just beginning to chafe a proud man’s spirit; but here in the North he was already “Some Musher," and was eager to win the honors that would prove him a worthy son of the Greatest Dog Man in Alaska.

True to their several characteristics, Spot manifested an amiable and wide-awake interest in all about him, Queen repelled all advances with snaps and snarls, and Baldy quivered with a dread of the unknown, and was only reassured when he felt Ben Edwards’ hand on his collar, and listened to the low, encouraging tones of the boy’s voice.

“Too bad, Matt,” drawled Black Mart, “that the little Allan kid’s usin’ Baldy. He was allers an ornery beast, an’ combin’ his hair an’ puttin’ tassels an’ fancy harness on him ain’t goin’ t’ make a racer outen a cur.”

Ben’s face flushed hotly. “It ain’t just beauty that counts, Baldy; it’s what you got clear down in your heart that folks can’t see,” he thought, and clung the more lovingly to the trembling dog.

Matt carefully shook the ashes from his pipe. “It’s a mighty good thing, Mart, that people an’ dogs ain’t judged entirely by looks. If they was, there’s some dogs that’s racin’ that would be in the pound, an’ some men that’s criticizin’ that would be in jail.”

“Ready.”

George, poised lightly on the runners at the back of the trim sled, firmly grasped the curved top, and repeated the word to Spot, who held himself motionless but in perfect readiness for the final signal.

“Go.”

With unexpected buoyancy and ease, Spot darted ahead, and for once Queen forgot her grievances, and Baldy his fears; as in absolute harmony of action, the incongruous team sped quickly down the length of the street, and over the edge of the Dry Creek hill; to reappear shortly on the trail that led straight out to the Bessie Bench.

The Road House there was the turning point, where the teams would pass round a pole at which was stationed a guard; and the collection of buildings which marked the end of half of the course looked distant indeed to the five young mushers who with their teams had now become, to the watchers in Nome, merely small moving black specks against the whiteness of the snow.

George and Dan had discussed the matter fully in the preceding days, and had decided that, like “Scotty,” they would do all of the real driving on the way home. So it was not at all disconcerting, some time before they reached the turn, to meet two of the teams coming back. The third, Jim’s, had been diverted at the Road House by a large family of small pigs in an enclosure surrounded by wire netting; and Jim’s most alluring promises and his direst threats were both unavailing against the charms of the squealing, grunting creatures, the like of which his spellbound chargers had never seen before.

Dan was several hundred feet ahead of George, and the latter could but look with some misgivings at the even pace of Judge, Jimmie and Pete; a pace that as yet showed no sign of weakening. Of course should Mego’s pups prove faster than his own team, he would loyally give all credit due the driver and dogs; but it would be a bitter disappointment indeed if Spot did not manifest the wonderful speed that Matt had always predicted for him, and if there was no evidence in superior ability, of the long hours of careful attention that George had devoted to his education as a leader.

When Dan’s team finally rounded the pole, and was headed toward him, George realized that the work of Mego’s sons evinced not only mechanical precision, but the intelligence of their breeding, and the advantages of their early training by “Scotty.” Dan would indeed, as he had boasted, “give them a run for their money.”

“Mush, Spot, Queen, Baldy,” and there was a slight increase in briskness, which was checked again as they swung by the guard.

“Now then, Spot,” and George gave a peculiar shrill whistle that to the dog meant “Full Speed Ahead.”

He watched the distance between himself and Dan decrease slowly at first; then more rapidly until they were abreast of one another. True to their compact they did not speak, and the inclination of Spot to stop for the usual visit beside his stable mates received no encouragement. Instead he got a stern command to “Hike, and hike quick!”

Beyond were the other teams, almost together, and to George it seemed as if he barely crept toward Bob and Bill; though there was a steady gain to the point where he could call out for the right of way to pass a privilege the driver of the faster team can demand.

But just behind him came Dan, whose dogs now felt the inspiration of the stiff gait set them by their friends; and both boys knew that from now on the race was between them alone.

George was more experienced in handling dogs, but Dan’s dogs were easier to handle. It was narrowing down to a question of the skill of the driver on one side, pitted against the excellence of the dogs on the other. Unless, indeed, Spot, Queen or Baldy should rise to the occasion in some unexpected manner; or the Luck of the Trail, that the Woman believed was so potent a factor, should enter into the contest.

They were approaching the last quarter of the course, where the road from Monroeville crossed the trail diagonally. George glanced back and saw that he would have to travel faster still to shake off Dan’s tireless “Pupmobile.”

For a moment he wondered despairingly why he had been so short-sighted as to choose three unknown quantities in such an important event, leaving to Dan those whose worth was a foregone conclusion. Then his sporting blood rose. If no one ever attempted anything new, it would be a pretty slow old world. And if he had not the courage to try Spot out, his pet might remain an ordinary, commonplace dog to the end of his days; a condition that would be intolerable to George. Then, too, it would have been a disappointment to Ben if Baldy could not have entered; and Ben’s feelings were now of much consequence to George and Danny, as they had admitted him, a third member, to their exclusive secret society, “The Ancient and Honorable Order of Bow-Wow Wonder Workers.” Better defeat than a fair chance not taken; and so, at such thoughts he was cheered and again whistled to Spot to “Speed Up.”

But just at that instant there came, down the Monroeville Road, and around the base of a small rise of ground, a Native hunter over whose shoulder was hung a dozen or more ptarmigan, the grouse of the North. Spot paused instantly, and seemed petrified in an attitude which his distant grandsires, old in field work, might have envied for its perfect immobility. The fact that the birds were dead and on a string meant nothing to his untutored mind. They were birds, and as such were worthy of a close and careful inspection.

Simultaneously Queen’s hatred of Eskimos received an impetus; and joined by the now aroused Spot, she started off the trail toward the unconscious cause of her deep-seated antipathy.

“A double-ender,” groaned George; “dead birds, and an Eskimo. Spot and Queen won’t show up till everything’s over but the shoutin’. I’ll just about tie for fourth place if Jim gets his pups away from the pigs about the time Queen finishes with the hunter.”

But tug as desperately as they might, neither Spot nor Queen succeeded in pulling the sled more than a few feet; for added to George’s weight on the brake, Baldy, calm and immovable, was braced against the efforts of the other two.

Spot’s ungainly feet pawed the snow impatiently, as he strained in his collar stretching the tow-line so taut that George feared it might snap. Equally unavailing were Queen’s sudden leaps and frantic plunges. The more they struggled, the more firmly Baldy held to the trail.

At last George’s stern reproofs, and a certain reasonableness in Spot that prompted him to accept the inevitable gracefully, combined to end the disturbance. Besides, the birds did not run nor fly, so they were not much fun anyway.

Not for Queen, however, was any such placid acceptance of defeat. Balked of her expected prey, she turned fiercely against her wheel-mate, whom she rightly considered responsible for her inability to bolt; and after one or two efforts, she fastened her teeth in his ear, leaving a small wound from which the blood trickled, staining his collar and shoulder. George expected Baldy to retaliate, but instead the dog ignored the attack and still held his ground with a determination that even Queen recognized, and to which she finally submitted unwillingly.

But in the time it took to adjust their difficulties, Dan caught up with them, and together the two teams dashed down the trail, neck and neck.

Dan longed to shout some facetious criticisms of the behavior he had just witnessed, but a certain sympathy for his rival, who was also his friend, restrained him; as well as the desire to conserve every atom of energy he possessed, even to saving his breath.

For a few hundred yards there was no perceptible difference in their positions; then gradually the Mego Pups pulled away and took the lead by a small margin.

Nose to the back of Dan’s sled came Spot, and so they sped on and on till the bridge and high bank of Dry Creek came into view, as well as the moving dark objects that the boys knew to be the crowds awaiting their return.

George, desperately anxious to try the signal that would urge his leader to his utmost, waited till they reached the top of a slight incline. Then the whistle sounded low, but clear. Spot leaped forward, and Queen and Baldy were no laggards in his wake.

Once more they were abreast of the “houn’ dogs,” and once more the tried and untried of the same Kennel raced side by side, with even chances of victory.

Then again came the Luck of the Trail; and Fate that had sent dead birds as a temptation now sent a live cat as an inspiration. It was black and sleek and swift, and fairly flew from a clump of willows by the wayside, up the trail toward a cabin on the edge of town; and after it flew Spot, all eagerness for the chase.

Dan’s team, as indifferent to the fascination of swift, sleek cats as only dogs of “Scotty’s” training could be, were pursuing the even tenor of their way in no wise excited by the episode.

When the cat darted out of sight to safety George’s dogs were almost at the starting point and the crowds had hurried to meet them; keeping free only a narrow passage down which they dashed with unabated speed. For while they were tired, and home and rest were near, the cheers and applause of the people egged them on till they crossed the line, where George was greeted as Winner of the First Annual, Juvenile Race of Nome.

He had covered the course of seven miles in thirty minutes and six seconds, while two minutes behind came Dan, just in time to offer loyal homage on the altar of friendship and success. There was a warm clasp of the hand, and a sincere if brief tribute. “You are some swell racer, George,” and, as one making a vow, “you can bet I’ll never throw rocks at another black cat so long as I live.”

Shortly Bob and Bill arrived, well pleased that they were so close to the Victor but there was no sign of Jim; whereupon Mr. Kelly delivered himself of a scathing comment. “I guess next time Jim ’d better enter the High School Girls’ Handicap; these real races ain’t any place for him.”

The presentation of the tiny Trophy Cup was a formal function. George, held up in the Judge’s arms that he might be seen as he received it, was filled not only with present pride, but also with an inward determination to devote the rest of his existence to the high calling of dog racing; with perhaps an occasional descent into the lower realms of school affairs and business, as a concession to the wishes of his parents and in deference to their age and old-fashioned ideas.

His happiness in the accomplishment of his dogs was complete. His hard work in their training had been fully repaid; for Spot had not only proved his cleverness as a leader, but Queen had been no worse than he had anticipated, and Baldy had faithfully performed his duty as a wheeler in keeping the trail when it was most necessary.

It was a triumph worth while for the boy and the team.

That night at a full meeting of the “Bow-Wow Wonder Workers,” the exciting affairs of the day were discussed at length.

Dan announced that he could recommend the Mego Pups to “Scotty” without a single unfavorable criticism. If there had been any weakness, it was, he admitted freely, in his driving. “I don’t seem to put the ginger into ’em the way George does at the finish. But I guess he takes it from his father; and my dad,” regretfully, “never drove anything better ’n horses in his whole life. Then there was that black cat, too.”

Ben Edwards, with his arm around Baldy’s neck, listened with delight as the minute details of the race were given by those who knew whereof they spoke. He was proud indeed when George told how Baldy had steadfastly held out against the efforts of Spot and Queen to bolt; and of the dog’s stoical indifference to the bitten ear, which was, fortunately, only slightly torn.

“I guess, Ben, that Baldy’ll be somethin’ like old Dubby. You can count on him doin’ the right thing every time. He’ll pull ’most as strong as McMillan, and he sure was good not to chew Queen up, the way she tackled him. But I don’t know,” judicially, “that we can make a real racer of him. He don’t seem to have just the racin’ spirit. He ain’t keen for it, like Spot. But he’s a bully all ’round dog, just the same.”

“Mebbe it’s cause he don’t understand the game,” answered Ben loyally. “Moose Jones allers said that Baldy had plenty o’ spirit; an’ I kinda think he’s like the ship she was tellin’ us about the other day. He ain’t really found himself yet.”

The Woman, perfectly unconscious that she was penetrating into a serious and secret Conclave of an Ancient and Honorable Order, came into the Kennel with the evening paper.

It contained an article complimenting George upon his skill in managing a difficult team, and upon introducing Spot, an infant prodigy, to the racing world of the North. Then it announced, in a delicate vein of sarcasm, that one of the wheel dogs had been the most recent notable addition to the Allan and Darling Kennel Baldy, late of Golconda, now of Nome, “a likely Sweepstakes Winner.” At which the Woman had sniffed audibly, and “Scotty” had chuckled amiably. But Ben Edwards crept that night into his hard cot with the paper tightly clasped in his grimy hand, to dream of Baldy’s future triumphs.