“True,” agreed “Scotty.”  “But don’t count too much on that, for the year we had that strange epidemic in the Kennel, something like distemper, they seemed perfectly well till almost the day of the race.  And that was the race,” grimly, “when the dear little Fuzzy-wuzzy Lap Dogs, as you call them, made the record time, and we came in third.”

“Well,” ruefully, “they had a true Siberian trail all the way; it was clear and cold, and there was not a single blizzard.  And the whole North knows that our rangy half-breeds are at their best when there are storms, and the route is rough and broken.  The luck of the trail,” sighing, “but at that, they were marvels.”

Without cavil, and with due praise from friend and antagonist alike, the success of the Siberians that year had been phenomenal and well deserved.  And so, when the “Iron Man” John Johnson, driving a team entered by Colonel Charles Ramsay of London, and Fox Ramsay driving his own team of the same type, were first and second, the Ramsay Tartan fluttered beside the flag of Finland in triumph.  It made no difference that one driver was the son of a Scotch Earl and one of a Scandinavian Peasant—­they were both men in the eyes of all Alaska; and they were both, with their sturdy dogs, saluted as victors in this classic of the snows.  And John Johnson’s record of four hundred and eight miles in seventy-four hours, fourteen minutes, and twenty-two seconds had made history in the North.

[Illustration:  The Ramsay Siberians]

“I did not feel half so bad, did you, ‘Scotty,’ when Fay Dalzene beat us with that great team of his and Russ Bowen’s?  For after all they were our type of dog, and justified our faith in the Alaskans.”

But no one year’s result, nor the accumulated result of several years, could settle the question of supremacy between the two breeds; and so the smouldering rivalry continued and was fanned into a hot flame each season just before the Solomon Derby.

“You’ll have a lot of able rivals, if the immense number of speedy teams I see in the streets means anything,” was the Big Man’s comment one evening when the Woman, after a fast drive, was boasting of the marked improvement in the team work of their entry.

“‘Scotty’ says he’s glad of it; the more teams that go into racing the higher the standard in Nome.  There has never been a time since the camp started when there have been so many efficient dogs as now; and it’s just because the people are learning that the only way you can have good dogs is to give them good care.  When an Eskimo gets together a racing team, and an excellent one at that, it begins to look like a general reform.  Don’t you remember when practically all of the natives used to force puppies, who were far too young to be driven at all, to draw the entire family in a sled that was already overflowing with household goods?”

“Yes, at one time you could certainly tell an Eskimo team as far as you could see it by the gait of the wretched, mangy beasts, that always appeared to be in the last stages of exhaustion.”