“Jodie Joleson,” there was a ring of enthusiasm in the girl’s voice. “I’ve heard of you.”
“Where?” he stared.
“Anchorage.”
“Way down there! How fame does travel,” he replied in mock seriousness.
“Tell me, Grandfather,” Florence faced about. “Did a girl ever win your dog race?”
“What? A girl?” the old man stared.
“Of course not,” Jodie answered for him.
“Why so certain?” Florence gave the young man a look.
“Well, you see—see,” he hesitated, “it’s a long race, hundred miles and back. How could she?”
“I—I was just wondering. You see, I’m new to the country,” Florence half apologized. There remained in her eyes, quite unobserved by her companions, a peculiar gleam that might mean almost anything.