“That’s what makes it so fascinating. Who wants to be forever doing what others do?”
“You’ll be an honor to your old granddad. I—I’m glad you came,” his voice was husky.
“I hoped you would be,” she replied simply.
All that night, with lights out and with the inner door ajar, Tom Kennedy sat by the window that overlooked the distant, moonlit hills and the dog kennels close at hand. Once Florence stirred in her sleep, then suddenly sat up. What was it? Had she heard a shot? She did hear the door softly closed, she was sure of that.
“What was it, grandfather?” she asked sleepily.
“Thought I saw a skunk. Can’t be sure. He’s gone now, went mighty fast.”
“Skunks,” she thought dreamily, “do they have skunks in Alaska?” What did it matter? Once more she was asleep.
And then the great day dawned.
All the little city’s population was out to see them start. A picturesque throng it was. Indians, Eskimos, trappers, traders, gold hunters, shop keepers, adventurers, they were all there.
The five contestants drew for places. The teams would start one hour apart. Many hours would pass before their return. When they began straggling back, the throng would be there again. Meanwhile, snug and warm in their cabins, they would with shouts of joy or howls of disappointment listen to shortwave radio accounts of the race.