Paul Kegsted and Bill Allan hastily disappeared around opposite corners
of the building to meet on the other side with eyes suspiciously wet.
"Bill, did you ever see anything like that," demanded Kegsted
tremulously, "for grit and spirit and--"
"And brave and loving service," added Bill, swallowing hard.
While "Scotty's" voice broke as, leaning down to stroke the dog
tenderly, he said, "I know you're game, Baldy, game to the end; but it
can't be done, and I'll hook you up to prove it."
To his astonishment Baldy moved forward; very, very slowly at first,
then slightly faster and with less and less stiffness, until in an hour
or so of moderate speed he was himself once more.
The exercise had done more than the liniment, and finally he was
swinging along at a rate that showed no sign of his recent incapacity.
They were off again in their usual form, and Nome waited impatiently for
word of the belated team.
In the next few hours the messages that reached the expectant city were
full of thrills--of hopes and fears. Groups of excited people met to
discuss again all phases of the contest; the freshness of the dogs, the
stamina of the men, the possibility of accidents; for a broken harness,
a refractory leader, an error in judgment, may mean overwhelming defeat
at the eleventh hour.
Never in the annals of the Sweepstakes had the result been so doubtful,
the chances so even. The two Johnsons, Holmsen, Dalzene, Allan--all men
noted for their ability and fortitude--men who would be picked out of
the whole North to represent the best type of trailsmen, were nearly
neck and neck, less than fifty miles from Nome, ready for the final
dash.
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