Black Mart edged through the throng toward Jones.  “I told you how it ’ud be, Moose; that pet o’ yourn ain’t comin’ through as good as you thought he would when you was so willin’ an’ anxious t’ bet your hard-earned dust on him.  An’ I reckon ‘Scotty’ Allan ain’t so pleased with himself fer goin’ agin what most ev’rybody said about his usin’ that cur fer a leader.”

“Speakin’ o’ bets, an’ curs, Mart, ef you want t’ do any more bettin’, I’m willin’t’ accommodate you.  I’m ready t’ back my opinion that ‘Scotty’ kin come in first, without a leader, ef you think any ways diffr’ent.”

Black Mart glanced again at the Bulletin and read slowly—­“Rubbing tried without success.  Baldy on sled.  Irish and Rover probably in lead.  McMillan’s feet still tender.  Another storm coming up.  Outlook bad.”

“Seems kinda onsportsman like, like bettin’ on a sure thing; but ef you really insist, Moose, in the face o’ this yere message, why you kin go as fur’s you like.  Mebbe a dollar ’ud suit you better, the way things is goin’ now, than a thousand;” and the people laughed at the covert allusion to their previous wager.  Moose Jones whitened visibly under his thick coat of tan at the insulting manner of his enemy.  All of his hatred culminated in his desire to show his contempt for Mart and his predictions.

“Well then, let’s make it somethin’ worth while this time.  Let’s say your claim agin mine—­the Midas agin the Golconda—­that the Allan an’ Darlin’ dogs win the race.”

A thrill of wild excitement ran through the crowd—­two of the richest claims in the whole of Alaska staked on the success or failure of one dog team, and the leader of that “down and out” at Timber.

“Oh, Moose, if our team don’t come in you’ll lose a terrible lot, an’ you’ve worked so hard t’ git it.”

“Even losin’ Golconda won’t break me now, Sonny; not by a long shot.  An’ even ef it did, I got what I allers did have left; two hands t’ work with, the hull country t’ work in, an’ a kid that likes me,” with an affectionate glance at the boy, “t’ work fer.  With all that, an’ a good dog er two, I wouldn’t call a Queen my aunt.  An’ ef we should win, Ben,—­well, it’s porterhouse fer Baldy the rest of his life at Mart Barclay’s expense.”

At Timber the time was passing with discouraging rapidity.  Nothing they could do seemed to have any beneficial effect on Baldy’s legs—­the legs that had been such a matter of pride to the boy in the old Golconda days.

In the races it is the custom to carry, at intervals, any dogs who need to recuperate, but Baldy had always manifested a certain scorn of these “passengers”; and “Scotty” knew that it would only be by force that he could be kept off his feet.

“Bill, you hold the dog; and Paul, if you’ll keep the mouth of the sleeping bag open, I’ll try to get Baldy into it.”

Poor Baldy resisted, but he was in the hands of his friends, so that his resistance was of necessity less violent than he could have wished; and in spite of his opposition he was tied in the bag, and gently lifted upon the sled.