[Footnote 1: "Musher"--driver, trailsman.]
True to their several characteristics, Spot manifested an amiable and
wide-awake interest in all about him, Queen repelled all advances with
snaps and snarls, and Baldy quivered with a dread of the unknown, and
was only reassured when he felt Ben Edwards' hand on his collar, and
listened to the low, encouraging tones of the boy's voice.
[Illustration: THE START OF AN ALASKAN DOG TEAM RACE]
"Too bad, Matt," drawled Black Mart, "that the little Allan kid's usin'
Baldy. He was allers an ornery beast, an' combin' his hair an' puttin'
tassels an' fancy harness on him ain't goin' t' make a racer outen a
cur."
Ben's face flushed hotly. "It ain't just beauty that counts, Baldy; it's
what you got clear down in your heart that folks can't see," he thought,
and clung the more lovingly to the trembling dog.
Matt carefully shook the ashes from his pipe. "It's a mighty good thing,
Mart, that people an' dogs ain't judged entirely by looks. If they was,
there's some dogs that's racin' that would be in the pound, an' some men
that's criticizin' that would be in jail."
"Ready."
George, poised lightly on the runners at the back of the trim sled,
firmly grasped the curved top, and repeated the word to Spot, who held
himself motionless but in perfect readiness for the final signal.
"Go."
With unexpected buoyancy and ease, Spot darted ahead, and for once
Queen forgot her grievances, and Baldy his fears; as in absolute harmony
of action, the incongruous team sped quickly down the length of the
street, and over the edge of the Dry Creek hill; to reappear shortly on
the trail that led straight out to the Bessie Bench.
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