ch ducking meant delay. As soon
as rescued, the wet man ran up and down to keep up his circulation,
while his dry companion built a fire. Thus protected, a change of
garments could be made and the wet ones dried against the next
misadventure.

To make matters worse, this dangerous river travel could not be done in
the dark, and their working day was reduced to the six hours of
twilight. Every moment was precious, and they strove never to lose
one. Thus, before the first hint of the coming of gray day, camp was
broken, sled loaded, dogs harnessed, and the two men crouched waiting
over the fire. Nor did they make the midday halt to eat. As it was,
they were running far behind their schedule, each day eating into the
margin they had run up. There were days when they made fifteen miles,
and days when they made a dozen. And there was one bad stretch where
in two days they covered nine miles, being compelled to turn their
backs three times on the river and to portage sled and outfit over the
mountains.

At last they cleared the dread Fifty Mile River and came out on Lake Le
Barge. Here was no open water nor jammed ice. For thirty miles or
more the snow lay level as a table; withal it lay three feet deep and
was soft as flour. Three miles an hour was the best they could make,
but Daylight celebrated the passing of the Fifty Mile by traveling
late. At eleven in the morning they emerged at the foot of the lake.
At three in the afternoon, as the Arctic night closed down, he caught
his first sight of the head of the lake, and with the first stars took
his bearings. At eight in the evening they left the lake behind and
entered the mouth of the Lewes River. Here a halt of half an hour was
made, while chunks of frozen boiled beans were thawed and the dogs were
given an extra ration of fish. Then they pulled on up the river till
one in the morning, when they made their regular camp.

They had hit the trail sixteen hours on end that day, the dogs had come
in too tired to fight among themselves or even snarl, and Kama had
perceptibly limped the last several miles; yet Daylight was on trail
next morning at six o'clock. By eleven he was at the foot of White
Horse, and that night saw him camped beyond the Box Canon, the last bad
river-stretch behind him, the string of lakes before him.

There was no let up in his pace. Twelve hours a day, six in the
twilight, and six in the dark, they toiled on the trail. Three hours