e
added; and the celerity with which Buck broke them in took away
Francois's breath.

"Nevaire such a dog as dat Buck!" he cried. "No, nevaire! Heem worth one
t'ousan' dollair, by Gar! Eh? Wot you say, Perrault?"

And Perrault nodded. He was ahead of the record then, and gaining day
by day. The trail was in excellent condition, well packed and hard, and
there was no new-fallen snow with which to contend. It was not too cold.
The temperature dropped to fifty below zero and remained there the whole
trip. The men rode and ran by turn, and the dogs were kept on the jump,
with but infrequent stoppages.

The Thirty Mile River was comparatively coated with ice, and they
covered in one day going out what had taken them ten days coming in. In
one run they made a sixty-mile dash from the foot of Lake Le Barge to
the White Horse Rapids. Across Marsh, Tagish, and Bennett (seventy miles
of lakes), they flew so fast that the man whose turn it was to run
towed behind the sled at the end of a rope. And on the last night of the
second week they topped White Pass and dropped down the sea slope with
the lights of Skaguay and of the shipping at their feet.

It was a record run. Each day for fourteen days they had averaged forty
miles. For three days Perrault and Francois threw chests up and down the
main street of Skaguay and were deluged with invitations to drink, while
the team was the constant centre of a worshipful crowd of dog-busters
and mushers. Then three or four western bad men aspired to clean out
the town, were riddled like pepper-boxes for their pains, and public
interest turned to other idols. Next came official orders. Francois
called Buck to him, threw his arms around him, wept over him. And that
was the last of Francois and Perrault. Like other men, they passed out
of Buck's life for good.

A Scotch half-breed took charge of him and his mates, and in company
with a dozen other dog-teams he started back over the weary trail to
Dawson. It was no light running now, nor record time, but heavy toil
each day, with a heavy load behind; for this was the mail train,
carrying word from the world to the men who sought gold under the shadow
of the Pole.

Buck did not like it, but he bore up well to the work, taking pride in
it after the manner of Dave and Sol-leks, and seeing that his mates,
whether they prided in it or not, did their fair share. It was a
monotonous life, operating with machine-like regularity. One day was
very