Another winter had come and gone, and again it was the day of the Great
Race.

Never had the time passed so quickly to Baldy, for he had now become a distinguished member of The Team, for whom every one, even the Woman, entertained a real respect, and to whom all of the dogs turned readily as to their acknowledged leader.

The Allan and Darling Racers were ready for the event.

There was an early stir in the Kennel, and all was hurry and bustle. The Woman came in with the Big Man, the Allan girls, and Ben Edwards, who helped her tie knots of white and gold on the front of the sled, on the collars of the racing dogs, and on other members of the family, about forty in all, who were old enough to appreciate the attention. Even the Yellow Peril apparently considered it an honor, for which he waited with unaccustomed patience.

The preparations were almost complete; and “Scotty” was everywhere, superintending the minute details, upon the completeness of which so much might depend.

Birdie was, in the confusion, about to borrow Mego’s puppies and take them out for an airing. Fisher, delighted that he was not of the elect, basked in a warm and secluded corner; while Jemima, frantic to be a part of the team, was restrained forcibly by Matt, and placed in solitary confinement.

Even Texas, for whom the Kennel had lost its charm and safety since the death of old Dubby, followed the Allan girls, and was treated to a becoming bow of the racing colors.

Matt brought out the long tow-line, and placed it carefully on the floor.

“Rex and McMillan in the wheel, like we’ve been usin’ ’em, I suppose?” and at a nod he released them.

“Wheel, Jack; wheel, Rex,” and they took their accustomed places next the sled, and remained motionless, yet keenly alert. “Tom and Dick, Harry and Tracy, Irish and Rover” name after name was called, and each dog stepped into position with joyful alacrity. They were, one and all, sturdy, intelligent, and spirited; with the stamina of their wild forebears, and the devoted nature of those dogs who have for generations been trained to willing service and have been faithful friends to their masters.

“Scotty’s” eyes rested upon them with justifiable pride. “I think,” he announced happily, “that in all my years of racing I have never had so fine a team; so many dogs I can count upon in every way.” And then came the expected order, “Baldy in the lead, Matt.”

There was an imperceptible pause –­ just long enough for him to brush softly against Ben Edwards, and look up lovingly into a beaming face and then Baldy stood at the head of the Allan and Darling Racing Team, a “likely Sweepstakes Winner,” as the Daily Dog News had once ironically predicted.

Baldy felt that now, if ever, had come his Day; the Day of which he had dreamed in his despised puppy-hood; the Day in which he could prove that the great dog man’s confidence was not misplaced, and that the boy’s belief was well founded.

At last they stood, every detail of equipment perfect, while “Scotty” glanced once more over his small kit in the sled; green veils for the dog’s eyes should the glare of the sun prove too troublesome, little blankets, canton flannel moccasins for their feet in case of sharp ice, and extra bits of harness all stowed safely away, including his own fur parka and water-tight boots.

Matt regarded the team critically, and while filled with a sober satisfaction, was much relieved to hear that it had the unqualified approval of the experts, George and Dan. “Of course Spot ’ud make a classier leader, Dan, but I’m the only one that can really handle him yet, so I guess Baldy’s best for Dad.”

The Woman waited to give each dog a parting caress and a word of encouragement. “Tom, Dick and Harry, remember you’re the Veterans, and have an honorable record to maintain; Irish and Rover, never forget that you are Irish, and live up to all that it means; McMillan, it’s your chance to wipe out the past; and Baldy well, Baldy, ‘Scotty,’ we all, trust you.” And then she turned and pinned the last knot of white and gold on Allan’s breast, and her voice trembled as she said, “Success to our colors.”

Through the narrow streets, gay with the fluttering streamers of the Kennel Club gold and green, they went. Banners and pennants shone resplendent under the cloudless blue of the April sky; and the crowds in high spirits and gala attire, eager and laughing, closed in upon them till Baldy longed to howl in sheer fright, though howling in harness is strictly forbidden by “Scotty,” and would have been quite out of keeping with the august dignity of his position. He was appalled by such a solid mass of human beings for of course the courts, schools, and business houses were all closed in honor of this important occasion; and probably the only people in all of Nome not bending their steps toward the starting place were those unavoidably detained in the hospital or jail.

Women who would not have been out of place on Fifth Avenue or Bond Street, women to whom even the French Poodle would have given his approval; men of the West in flannel shirts and cowboy hats; miners from the Creeks, gathered from all corners of the Earth; Eskimos in their furs with tiny babies strapped on their backs; rosy-cheeked children all hurried to the point where the long journey was to begin.

Nomie was everywhere, barking delightedly, and giving each team an impartial greeting.

Oolik Lomen with his latest doll, acquired that very morning from some careless mother more intent upon sporting affairs than domestic duties, paraded superciliously up and down, plainly bored by the proceedings; but attending because it was the correct thing to do.

What a relief it was to reach the open space on the ice of Bering Sea, in front of the town, where the fast gathering multitudes were being held back by ropes, and kept in line by Marshals in trappings of the club colors.

Presently the merry jingle of bells, and loud shouts, announced the approach of the Royal Sled. Covered with magnificent wolf robes, and drawn by twelve young men, fur-clad from head to foot her “human huskies” the Queen of the North dashed up to the Royal Box, where, surrounded by her ten pretty maids of honor, like her clad in rare furs of Arctic design and fashioning, she was given an imposing reception by the judges and directors of the Kennel Club.

In one hand the Queen carried a quaintly carved scepter of ivory, made from a huge walrus tusk, and in the other the American Flag at whose dip would begin once more the struggle for the supremacy of the trail. A supremacy which is not merely the winning of the purse and cup, but is the conquering of the obstacles and terrors that beset the trackless wastes a defiance of the elements, a triumph of human nature over nature.

There was the sound of many voices; small boys, scarcely out of pinafores, discussed with a surprising amount of knowledge the merits of the individual dogs and the capabilities of their drivers; little girls donned ribbons with a sportsman-like disregard of their “becomingness” to show a preference which might be based either on a personal fondness for a driver or owner, or a loving interest in some particular dog. While men and women, who on the Outside would be regarded as far beyond an age when such an event would have an intense interest for them, here manifest an allegiance so loyal that at times it threatens to disrupt friendships, if not families.

The babble increased in volume, for the first team had drawn up between the stands to wait for the final moment, and Charles Johnson stood ready, with his noted Siberians, to begin the contest. They made a charming appearance, and their admirers were many and enthusiastic.

“Ten seconds,” was called; unconsciously all voices were hushed. “Five seconds!” The silence was broken only by the restless moving of the people and the barking of the excited dogs.

Then the clock struck ten, and simultaneously the stirring strains of the trumpet ended the spell that held the crowd in breathless attention. The men released the dogs, the flag in the hand of the Queen fluttered, then fell, and the first team in the greatest race in the world had “hit the Trail for Candle,” while cheer after cheer followed its swift flight between the long lines of eager faces and waving colors.

In the pause that ensued an impatient voice rose in insistent demand. “What are you waiting for? Bring on your Fidos,” and then as “Scotty” Allan appeared and stood with difficulty holding the spirited Allan and Darling dogs, the same voice asked in tones of utter disdain, “Whose mangy Fidos are these?” He was evidently a stranger, and in favor of the trim Siberians, scorning the rangy “Lop-ears,” as they are sometimes called in derision.

But whatever type may please their fancy, the faithfulness of all, and the skill of each driver appeals to these Northerners, most of whom know well the hardships of this ultimate frontier. So that their wild enthusiasm seems not so much a question of personality as a spontaneous tribute to the energy and courage of the men, and the patient willingness of the dogs.

Allan’s selection of dogs had caused much adverse criticism, but Matt warmly defended his choice. “You can’t tell me that Tom, Dick and Harry’s stale from too much trainin’ an’ bein’ in too many races. I know better; an’ you can be certain that ‘Scotty’ wouldn’t have taken ’em if they was goin’ t’ be a drag on such wonders as Irish, Rover and Spot. Take my word for it, them old Pioneers is goin’ t’ be the back-bone o’ the hull team when the youngsters has wore themselves out.”

A few who did not believe in the sincerity or stability of Jack McMillan’s reformation predicted trouble because of his presence. As a leader he had twice utterly demoralized teams in previous races, and it was “not unlikely,” declared the prophets of evil, “that he would blow up on the Trail out of pure cussedness.”

“Well, it ain’t McMillan, ner Tom, Dick ner Harry that’s goin’ t’ lose this here race fer the Allan an’ Darling team,” exclaimed Mart Barclay with vicious conviction. “It’s that there cur leader they got Baldy. There’s enough Scotch stubbornness in Allan t’ try to make a leader outen a cur jest becus folks said he couldn’t. Up in Dawson I heered once he trained a timber wolf t’ lead a team o’ McKenzie huskies; but he’d find that a heap easier ‘n puttin’ the racin’ sperit inter that low-down Golconda hound; an’ I’ll bet he’ll git all that’s comin’ t’ him this time fer his pains.”

“Ef you’re bettin’ on that, Mart,” quickly interposed Moose Jones, “I’ve got some dust from my Golconda claim that’s lyin’ round loose at the Miners and Merchants Bank, an’ five hundred of it says that you’re well, seem’ as there’s ladies present, it says you’re mistaken about Baldy’s sperit. You see my friend, Ben Edwards here, is kinda figgerin’ on college some day after a while, an’ a little loose change wouldn’t hurt none. It might come in right handy fer all the extry things boys wants, like fancy clothes an’ flat-faced bulldogs. I guess Ben wouldn’t want one o’ them, though, after he’s owned a dog like Baldy. But he could use a thousand in lots o’ ways easy my money an’ yourn.”

“Double it,” sneered Mart.

“Done,” and those surrounding them witnessed the wager with much applause; while the boy, clinging to the rough hand of his companion, whispered tremulously, “Oh, Moose, I won’t want any extras when I go to college. It’s enough to just go. But I do want Baldy t’ win, though.”

“Ten seconds; five seconds.” The dogs were mad to be off, but Allan’s warning command, “Steady, boys, steady,” kept them quiet, though they were quivering with eagerness; all except Baldy, who again seemed plainly panic-stricken, and wildly glanced from side to side as if searching for some loophole of escape.

Five minutes past ten. Once more the flag dipped, the signal for them to start was given, and “Scotty’s”

“All right, boys, go,” was music to their listening ears; as leaping forward with one accord, amidst renewed cries of encouragement and admiration, the defenders of the White and Gold sped far out over the frozen sea, where they, too, were headed for the Arctic.