"Oh, Doctor, she does be took wonderful bad. Sometimes the wind rises an' it goes all up an' down an' it settles in her teeth an' the pains shoots her in the stummick an' we has to take hold of her arms an' pull 'em out and she howls like a dog an' we dunno what's the matter. Would you please come an' see? She's askin' us to kill her she's in such punishment, but us didn't think us'd ought to do it without askin' you. Would you please come 'n' see?"
In that first winter Grenfell was "at home" three Sundays only, and he had to cover fifteen hundred miles behind the dogs. Sometimes they were heart-breaking, bone-racking miles. Sometimes they were as smooth and easy as a skating-rink. But not very often.
One day he had a run of seventy miles to make across the frozen country.
The path was not broken out—it wasn't even cut and blazed.
Just once had the leading dog made the journey.
But because he had made it once—they left it all to him to choose the way to go.
Straight on the good dog went, never stopping to turn round and look in the face of the driver, the way dogs will.
The way—such as it was—took them over wide lakes, and through thick woods deep-hung with snow.
"Halt!" called Grenfell. The driver gave the command to the dogs. They stopped and rested while the men explored.
Sure enough, the leading dog was right. A climb to the top of a high tree showed the "leads" and proved to the men that they were traveling in the right direction: and the compass said so too.