There was no doubt about it, Nicholas had a capital team of dogs, and knew how to drive them.  Two-legged folk often had to trot pretty briskly to keep up.  Pymeut was soon out of sight.

“Nicholas, what’ll you take for a couple o’ your dogs?”

“No sell.”

“Pay you a good long price.”

“No sell.”

“Well, will you help me to get a couple?”

“Me try”; but he spoke dubiously.

“What do they cost?”

“Good leader cost hunder and fifty in St. Michael.”

“You don’t mean dollahs?”

“Mean dollahs.”

“Come off the roof!”

But Nicholas seemed to think there was no need.

“You mean that if I offer you a hundred and fifty dollahs for your leader, straight off, this minute, you won’t take it?”

“No, no take,” said the Prince, stolidly.

And his friend reflected.  Nicholas without a dog-team would be practically a prisoner for eight months of the year, and not only that, but a prisoner in danger of starving to death.  After all, perhaps a dog-team in such a country was priceless, and the Ol’ Chief was travelling in truly royal style.

However, it was stinging cold, and running after those expensive dogs was an occupation that palled.  By-and-by, “How much is your sled worth?” he asked Ol’ Chief.

“Six sables,” said the monarch.

* * * * *

It was a comfort to sight a settlement off there on the point.

“What’s this place?”

“Fish-town.”

“Pymeuts there?”

“No, all gone.  Come back when salmon run.”

Not a creature there, as Nicholas had foretold—­a place built wilfully on the most exposed point possible, bleak beyond belief.  If you open your mouth at this place on the Yukon, you have to swallow a hurricane.  The Boy choked, turned his back to spit out the throttling blast, and when he could catch his breath inquired: 

“This a good place for a village?”

“Bully.  Wind come, blow muskeetah—­”

Nicholas signified a remote destination with his whip.

“B’lieve you!  This kind o’ thing would discourage even a mosquito.”

In the teeth of the blast they went past the Pymeut Summer Resort.  Unlike Pymeut proper, its cabins were built entirely above ground, of logs unchinked, its roofs of watertight birch-bark.

A couple of hours farther on Nicholas permitted a halt on the edge of a struggling little grove of dwarfed cotton-wood.

The kettle and things being withdrawn from various portions of the Ol’ Chief’s person, he, once more warmly tucked up and tightly lashed down, drew the edge of the outer coverlid up till it met the wolf-skin fringe of his parki hood, and relapsed into slumber.

Nicholas chopped down enough green wood to make a hearth.

“What! bang on the snow?”