t of the sled, on the
collars of the racing dogs, and on other members of the family, about
forty in all, who were old enough to appreciate the attention. Even the
Yellow Peril apparently considered it an honor, for which he waited with
unaccustomed patience.

The preparations were almost complete; and "Scotty" was everywhere,
superintending the minute details, upon the completeness of which so
much might depend.

Birdie was, in the confusion, about to borrow Mego's puppies and take
them out for an airing. Fisher, delighted that he was not of the elect,
basked in a warm and secluded corner; while Jemima, frantic to be a part
of the team, was restrained forcibly by Matt, and placed in solitary
confinement.

Even Texas, for whom the Kennel had lost its charm--and safety--since
the death of old Dubby, followed the Allan girls, and was treated to a
becoming bow of the racing colors.

Matt brought out the long tow-line, and placed it carefully on the
floor.

"Rex and McMillan in the wheel, like we've been usin' 'em, I suppose?"
and at a nod he released them.

"Wheel, Jack; wheel, Rex," and they took their accustomed places next
the sled, and remained motionless, yet keenly alert. "Tom and Dick,
Harry and Tracy, Irish and Rover"--name after name was called, and each
dog stepped into position with joyful alacrity. They were, one and all,
sturdy, intelligent, and spirited; with the stamina of their wild
forebears, and the devoted nature of those dogs who have for generations
been trained to willing service and have been faithful friends to their
masters.

"Scotty's" eyes rested upon them with justifiable pride. "I think," he
announced happily, "that in all my years of racing I have never had so
fine a team; so many dogs I can count upon in every way." And then came
the expected order, "Baldy in the lead, Matt."

There was an imperceptible pause--- just long enough for him to brush
softly against Ben Edwards, and look up lovingly into a beaming
face--and then Baldy stood at the head of the Allan and Darling Racing
Team, a "likely Sweepstakes Winner," as the Daily Dog News had once
ironically predicted.

Baldy felt that now, if ever, had come his Day; the Day of which he had
dreamed in his despised puppy-hood; the Day in which he could prove that
the great dog man's confidence was not misplaced, and that the boy's
belief was well founded.

At last they stood, every detail of equipment perfect, while "Scotty"
glance