he 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.

[Illustration: SCOTTY ALLAN ON THE TRAIL]

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' lea