“And there’s really a vast improvement in the freighting teams as well; for so many dogs that do not quite make the racing teams become freighters and show the results of their breeding and training there.  In fact,” enthusiastically, “I am sure that dog racing has been an enormous benefit to Nome in every way.  Stefansson told me himself that never in his experience, and it has been wide, had he found such dogs as those ‘Scotty’ bought for their Canadian Arctic Expedition.  And I believe,” with conviction, “it is because Nome dogs, through the races, are acknowledged to be the best in all the North—­for both sport and work.”

The Big Man smiled, and suggested, banteringly, that she embody those views into form for the benefit of Congress.

The Woman looked rather puzzled.  “Congress?” she demanded; “and why Congress?”

“Because,” he continued with some amusement, “there are people who venture to differ with you materially in your view-point.  I understand that very recently the Kennel Club has received communications from various high officials of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, threatening to place the matter of dog racing in Nome before Congress, with the hope of having these cruel racing contests stopped.

“That is, of course, if those concerned cannot be made to see the error of their ways by some less drastic method.”

For a moment the Woman was quite speechless with surprise and dismay.

“Well,” she finally exclaimed, “if that isn’t human nature for you—­beams and motes and all that sort of thing.

“Good people with the very best intentions in the world, trying to interfere in affairs about which they know nothing, thousands of miles away; when probably around the very next corner are things about which they should know everything, needing their attention constantly.”

“They say, in one letter, that there are many Alaskans, as well as Outsiders, who have made these complaints.”

“Oh, I dare say,” scornfully, “even in Alaska there are persons whose only idea of a dog is that of a fat, wheezy house-dog who crunches bones under the dining table, and sleeps on a crocheted shawl in a Morris chair.  But real Alaskans know that pity for the dogs of the North should be felt, not for the Racers, but for the poor work dogs who haul their burdens of lumber and machinery and all kinds of supplies out to the distant mines.

“And that, too, over rough and splintered ties in the glare of the fierce summer sun that shines for nearly twenty-four hours at a stretch.  I’ll wager,” defiantly, “that if Alaska dogs have one supreme ambition, like that of every loyal small American boy to become President of the United States, it is to become a member of a racing team.”

“Undoubtedly,” agreed the Big Man soothingly.  “But Congress, I believe, is ignorant of such ambitions as yet.”

“Congress is ignorant of a good many things concerning Alaska and the Alaskans,” contemptuously.