aughed
and wondered about that letter. They had put it in the pigeon-hole,
and there it now was. But Marian had not forgotten her promise to take
it with her in case the boy did not return before she left the Cape.

Now, as she watched-the restless ocean, she realized that it would not
be many days before it would break its bonds. The ice would then float
away to points unknown. Little gasoline schooners would go flitting
here and there like sea-gulls, and then would come the hoarse voice of
the _Corwin_, mail steamer for Arctic. She would take that steamer to
Nome. Would the boy be back by then, or would she carry the mysterious
letter with her? For a long time Marian gave herself up to speculation.

As she sat dreaming of these things, she started suddenly. Something
had touched her foot.

"Oh;" she exclaimed, then laughed.

The most forlorn-looking dog she had ever seen had touched her foot
with his nose. His hair was ragged and matted. His bones protruded at
every possible point. His mouth was set awry, one side hanging
half-open.

"So it's you," she said; "you're looking worse than common."

The dog opened his mouth, allowing his long tongue to loll out.

"I suppose that means you're hungry. Well, for once you are in luck.
The natives caught a hundred or more salmon through the ice. I have
some of them. Fish, Old Top, fish! What say?"

The dog stood on his hind legs and barked for joy. He read the sign in
her eyes if he did not understand her lip-message.

In another moment he was gulping down a fat, four-pound salmon, while
Marian eyed him, a curious questioning look on her face.

"Now," she said, as the dog finished, "the question is what are we
going to do with you? You're an old dog. You're no good in a team.
Too old. Bad feet. No, sir, you can't be any good, or you wouldn't be
back here in five days. We gave you to Tommy Illayok to lead his team.
You were a leader in your day all right, and you'd lead 'em yet if you
could, poor old soul!"

There was a catch in her voice. To her dogs were next to humans. In
the North they were necessary servants as well as friends.

"The thing that makes it hard to turn you out," she went on huskily,
"is the fact that you're a white man's dog. Yes, sir! a white man's
dog. And that means an awful lot; means you'd stick till death to any
white person who'd feed you and call you friend. Mr. Jack London has
written a book about a white man's