“Even if I’m compelled to apologize to him,” grimaced Dick, “and cook his meals and wait on him hand and foot, we’ll have to keep him.”
“There’s no other way. You can punish him when you get to Keechewan, of course. I’d suggest turning him over to the policeman up there, your Corporal Rand.”
Silence settled down again, broken only by the cracking of whips and the sharp cries of the dog drivers. The afternoon slowly wore on. An overcast sky brought the darkness early. Yet they pushed on for nearly an hour through the gloom before Dick gave orders to halt and make camp.
“We’ve made a record today,” exulted Sandy, as he came forward to assist Dick in unharnessing the malemutes from the mail-sledge. “We must have come nearly forty miles. With a good snow-crust, we’ll do even better than that.”
Dick was about to answer, when he became aware of a form emerging from the dark. A familiar voice accosted him:
“Is that you, Dick?”
“You bet! Why hello, Toma. Where’s your team?”
“I get ’em off harness already. Feed ’em fish. Bye-’n’-bye they crawl in snowdrift an’ go to sleep.”
“Tired enough to do that myself,” declared Sandy. Toma came closer. He took Dick’s arm.
“You know that fellow, Lamont,” he began eagerly.