Baldy of Nome

by Esther Birdsall Darling

Many of the dogs had been in several of the Sweepstakes teams and they realized that these short, snappy spins were for speed and not endurance, which is the main feature of the great race.

Baldy watched with much anxiety the lack of intelligent interest on the part of a few of the recruits, and tried to infuse the proper zest into them by the force of a good example. That not proving entirely satisfactory, he had been known, when really necessary, to use the prerogative of a loose leader, and bite the dog in front of him when he wished to suggest more readiness, or a closer attention to business. But that was contrary to Baldy's peace policy, and was always a last resort.

The old guard were naturally the mentors, and it was a pleasure to watch the skill with which they performed their tasks. It was a stupid or unwilling dog indeed who could not learn much from the agile Tolmans, or the gentle Irish Setters, in whom the fierce strong blood of some huskie grandparent would never be suspected except for a certain toughness that manifested itself in trail work alone.

As for Kid, capable from the first, he was fast developing a justifiable confidence in himself, and a perfect control over the rest of the team, and "Scotty" was jubilant over such a leader.

"We have a good team," he said to the Woman as they stood watching the dogs at play out in the corral with Ben, George and Dan. "And we need it. Matt tells me that Seward Peninsula has been scoured quietly, from one end to the other, to add finer dogs to last year's seasoned entries. And all of the drivers will be men who know the game." Which meant a severe struggle; for strength and speed in the dogs, and real generalship and a masterly comprehension of all phases of the trail, in the driver, are the chief requisites in this wonderful contest.

"They're in great form," observed the Woman with pride and admiration. "I don't think I have ever seen them looking better."

"True," agreed "Scotty." "But don't count too much on that, for the year we had that strange epidemic in the Kennel, something like distemper, they seemed perfectly well till almost the day of the race. And that was the race," grimly, "when the dear little Fuzzy-wuzzy Lap Dogs, as you call them, made the record time, and we came in third."

"Well," ruefully, "they had a true Siberian trail all the way; it was clear and cold, and there was not a single blizzard. And the whole North knows that our rangy half-breeds are at their best when there are storms, and the route is rough and broken. The luck of the trail," sighing, "but at that, they were marvels."

Without cavil, and with due praise from friend and antagonist alike, the success of the Siberians that year had been phenomenal and well deserved. And so, when the "Iron Man" John Johnson, driving a team entered by Colonel Charles Ramsay of London, and Fox Ramsay driving his own team of the same type, were first and second, the Ramsay Tartan fluttered beside the flag of Finland in triumph. It made no difference that one driver was the son of a Scotch Earl and one of a Scandinavian Peasant—they were both men in the eyes of all Alaska; and they were both, with their sturdy dogs, saluted as victors in this classic of the snows. And John Johnson's record of four hundred and eight miles in seventy-four hours, fourteen minutes, and twenty-two seconds had made history in the North.