quite clearly three men's
footmarks. "Uncle John's gone with t' others," he muttered to himself.
"I 'low 't is t' last journey some of 'em 'll make, unless they
minded the signs before too late. 'Tis lucky that I hadn't left old
Surefoot at t' tilt; more'n likely I shall be needing he before t'
night's out." And he called his one earthly chum and constant
companion to him, rubbed his head, and made him nose the men's tracks
which he was about to follow.

In spite of his nickname, Sally was no greenhorn on occasions like
this. Every harness was carefully gone over, every trace tested; the
runners and cross-bars of his komatik all came in for a critical
overhauling. The contents of the nonny-bag were amply replenished; the
matches in the water-tight bottle were tested for dampness; his small
compass was securely lashed to the chain of his belt. His one bottle
of spirits, "kept against sickness," was carefully stowed with the tea
and hardtack. A bundle of warm wraps, with his axe, and even a few dry
splits, completed his equipment. Then once more Surefoot was shown the
tracks on the threshold, the trailing loops of the traces were hitched
on their respective toggles, the stern line was slipped, and away
went his sturdy team into the darkness.

That animals have a sense of direction that man has lost is clearly
proven by the seals, birds, polar bears, and our northern migratory
animals generally, who every year follow in their season the right
trails to their destinations, even though thousands of miles distant
and over pathless seas or trackless snows and barrens. That instinct
is nowhere more keenly developed than in our draught dogs; and amongst
these there are always now and again, as in human relationships, those
that are peerless among their fellows. Surefoot's name, like Sally's
own, was not strictly his baptismal cognomen, the original name of
"Whitefoot" having been relegated to oblivion early in life owing to
some clever trail-following the pup had achieved.

Many men would face an aeroplane flight with a sinking sensation. Many
would have to acknowledge some qualms on a start with "mere dogs" in a
blizzard like this one. But Sally, unemotional as a statue and serene
as a judge, knew his pilot too well to worry, and, stretched out full
length on the sledge, occupied himself with combating the snow in
between "spells" of hauling the komatik out of hopeless snowbanks. "It
won't do to pass the Featherbed without