He was always driven “loose” on the rare and gala occasions when, at his own plainly expressed desire, he was placed again in temporary service.  With that liberty he made it his business to see that no dog was shirking.  A glance at a slack strap was enough to betray the idler; and an admonishing nip on the culprit’s ear or flank was the cause of a reformation that was sudden and abject for a while at least.

The only punishment that had ever been meted out to Dubby for some indiscretion, or an act of insubordination, was to hitch him up with the rest of the team.  There were no depths of humiliation greater, no shame more poignant, and for days after such an ordeal he would show a brooding melancholy that almost made the Woman weep in sympathy.

Now, pensioned and retired, with a record of over thirty thousand miles in harness to his credit, he lived a delightful and exclusive existence in his own apartments over the barn.

As he had taken Baldy into his favor, so too he included Ben in his rather limited list of favorites; and the boy never wearied of hearing from “Scotty” and the Woman their many tales of the huskie’s remarkable achievements.

“Even if he ain’t a Racer,” was the child’s admiring assertion, “everybody in the whole North knows Dub, and what he’s done.  I hope,” wistfully, “that some day people’ll speak o’ Baldy jest like that.”

“You can hardly expect that, Ben!  Think of the hundreds and hundreds of good dogs that are never known outside of their own kennels.  Baldy is obedient and willing, but it takes something extraordinary, really brilliant, or dramatic, to give a dog more than a local reputation.  Of course there are a few, but very few, who have won such distinction.  John Johnson’s Blue Eyed Kolma was a wonder for his docile disposition and staying qualities.  You can’t match our Kid for all round good work, nor Irish for speed.  And Jack McMillan—­”

“I don’t believe I’d specify McMillan’s claims to fame, or shall we say notoriety,” observed “Scotty,” with a twinkle in his eye.  “Then,” he resumed, “there were Morte Atkinson’s Blue Leaders, that Percy Blatchford drove in the second big race.  When we met at Last Chance on the way back, Blatchford nearly cried when he told me how those setters had saved his hands from freezing.  He had turned them loose to rest and run behind at will, knowing they would catch up at the next stop.  In some way he had dropped the fur gloves he wore over his mittens, when he took them off to adjust a sled pack, and did not miss them for some time, until he ran into a fierce blizzard.  Of course he could not go back for them, and he feared his hands would become useless from the cold.  He was in a pretty bad fix, when up came the Blue Leaders, almost exhausted, but each with a glove in his mouth.”

“Oh, that was fine,” murmured Ben.

“Give me bird-dog stock every time,” continued Allan, “with a native strain for strength and trail instincts.  It’s a combination that makes our Alaskans just about right, to my idea.”