Spot paused instantly, and seemed petrified in an attitude which his
distant grandsires, old in field work, might have envied for its perfect
immobility. The fact that the birds were dead and on a string meant
nothing to his untutored mind. They were birds, and as such were worthy
of a close and careful inspection.
Simultaneously Queen's hatred of Eskimos received an impetus; and joined
by the now aroused Spot, she started off the trail toward the
unconscious cause of her deep-seated antipathy.
"A double-ender," groaned George; "dead birds, and an Eskimo. Spot and
Queen won't show up till everything's over but the shoutin'. I'll just
about tie for fourth place if Jim gets his pups away from the pigs
about the time Queen finishes with the hunter."
But tug as desperately as they might, neither Spot nor Queen succeeded
in pulling the sled more than a few feet; for added to George's weight
on the brake, Baldy, calm and immovable, was braced against the efforts
of the other two.
Spot's ungainly feet pawed the snow impatiently, as he strained in his
collar stretching the tow-line so taut that George feared it might snap.
Equally unavailing were Queen's sudden leaps and frantic plunges. The
more they struggled, the more firmly Baldy held to the trail.
At last George's stern reproofs, and a certain reasonableness in Spot
that prompted him to accept the inevitable gracefully, combined to end
the disturbance. Besides, the birds did not run nor fly, so they were
not much fun anyway.
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