er'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,