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.