ing melancholy that almost made the Woman weep in sympathy.

Now, pensioned and retired, with a record of over thirty thousand miles
in harness to his credit, he lived a delightful and exclusive existence
in his own apartments over the barn.

As he had taken Baldy into his favor, so too he included Ben in his
rather limited list of favorites; and the boy never wearied of hearing
from "Scotty" and the Woman their many tales of the huskie's remarkable
achievements.

"Even if he ain't a Racer," was the child's admiring assertion,
"everybody in the whole North knows Dub, and what he's done. I hope,"
wistfully, "that some day people'll speak o' Baldy jest like that."

"You can hardly expect that, Ben! Think of the hundreds and hundreds of
good dogs that are never known outside of their own kennels. Baldy is
obedient and willing, but it takes something extraordinary, really
brilliant, or dramatic, to give a dog more than a local reputation. Of
course there are a few, but very few, who have won such distinction.
John Johnson's Blue Eyed Kolma was a wonder for his docile disposition
and staying qualities. You can't match our Kid for all round good work,
nor Irish for speed. And Jack McMillan--"

"I don't believe I'd specify McMillan's claims to fame, or shall we say
notoriety," observed "Scotty," with a twinkle in his eye. "Then," he
resumed, "there were Morte Atkinson's Blue Leaders, that Percy
Blatchford drove in the second big race. When we met at Last Chance on
the way back, Blatchford nearly cried when he told me how those setters
had saved his hands from freezing. He had turned them loose to rest and
run behind at will, knowing they would catch up at the next stop. In
some way he had dropped the fur gloves he wore over his mittens, when he
took them off to adjust a sled pack, and did not miss them for some
time, until he ran into a fierce blizzard. Of course he could not go
back for them, and he feared his hands would become useless from the
cold. He was in a pretty bad fix, when up came the Blue Leaders, almost
exhausted, but each with a glove in his mouth."

"Oh, that was fine," murmured Ben.

"Give me bird-dog stock every time," continued Allan, "with a native
strain for strength and trail instincts. It's a combination that makes
our Alaskans just about right, to my idea."

"Naturally I feel that our half-breeds are best, too. But I do wish,"
regretfully, "that they could all be the same sort of half-breeds--to