, and
Louis Savoy, taking the pace, hung on desperately, his leaders running
even with the tail of his rival's sled.

Midway on the glassy stretch their relays shot out from the bank. But
Harrington did not slacken. Watching his chance when the new sled swung
in close, he leaped across, shouting as he did so and jumping up the pace
of his fresh dogs. The other driver fell off somehow. Savoy did
likewise with his relay, and the abandoned teams, swerving to right and
left, collided with the others and piled the ice with confusion.
Harrington cut out the pace; Savoy hung on. As they neared the end of
the glare ice, they swept abreast of the leading sled. When they shot
into the narrow trail between the soft snowbanks, they led the race; and
Dawson, watching by the light of the aurora, swore that it was neatly
done.

When the frost grows lusty at sixty below, men cannot long remain without
fire or excessive exercise, and live. So Harrington and Savoy now fell
to the ancient custom of "ride and run." Leaping from their sleds, tow-
thongs in hand, they ran behind till the blood resumed its wonted
channels and expelled the frost, then back to the sleds till the heat
again ebbed away. Thus, riding and running, they covered the second and
third relays. Several times, on smooth ice, Savoy spurted his dogs, and
as often failed to gain past. Strung along for five miles in the rear,
the remainder of the race strove to overtake them, but vainly, for to
Louis Savoy alone was the glory given of keeping Jack Harrington's
killing pace.

As they swung into the seventy-five-mile station, Lon McFane dashed
alongside; Wolf Fang in the lead caught Harrington's eye, and he knew
that the race was his. No team in the North could pass him on those last
twenty-five miles. And when Savoy saw Wolf Fang heading his rival's
team, he knew that he was out of the running, and he cursed softly to
himself, in the way woman is most frequently cursed. But he still clung
to the other's smoking trail, gambling on chance to the last. And as
they churned along, the day breaking in the southeast, they marvelled in
joy and sorrow at that which Joy Molineau had done.

* * * * *

Forty Mile had early crawled out of its sleeping furs and congregated
near the edge of the trail. From this point it could view the up-Yukon
course to its first bend several miles away. Here it could also see
across the river to the finish at Fort Cudahy, where the Go