After thoughtful consideration, “Scotty” placed Irish and Rover at the head of the team.  “They’re good dogs; mighty good dogs, but they’re not used to the grind like Baldy.”

He took his place at the handle-bars.  “I’ll try my hardest, boys, but every chance is against me now.”

Before he could give the word to the new leaders, there was the sound of gnawing, and the quick rending of cloth.  He turned to see Baldy’s head emerge from the bag, his eyes blazing with determination and his sharp fangs tearing the fastenings apart, and the hide to shreds.

“Baldy,” he called; but Baldy threw himself from the sled with evident pain, but in a frenzy of haste.

With intense amazement they watched him drag himself, with the utmost difficulty, out of the sled, and up to the front of the team.

He paused a moment, and then by a supreme effort started off, expecting the others to follow.  There was no response to his desperate appeal—­for they were not used to Baldy as a loose leader.  Again he came back, and again endeavored to induce his team-mates to go with him down the trail, but in vain; they waited a word from their master.

The men stood speechless; and the dog, whimpering pitifully, crept close to Allan and looking up into his face reproachfully seemed to beg to be restored to his rightful place, and tried to show him that just so long as there was life in Baldy’s body, “Scotty” would have a leader.

Paul Kegsted and Bill Allan hastily disappeared around opposite corners of the building to meet on the other side with eyes suspiciously wet.

“Bill, did you ever see anything like that,” demanded Kegsted tremulously, “for grit and spirit and—­”

“And brave and loving service,” added Bill, swallowing hard.

While “Scotty’s” voice broke as, leaning down to stroke the dog tenderly, he said, “I know you’re game, Baldy, game to the end; but it can’t be done, and I’ll hook you up to prove it.”

To his astonishment Baldy moved forward; very, very slowly at first, then slightly faster and with less and less stiffness, until in an hour or so of moderate speed he was himself once more.

The exercise had done more than the liniment, and finally he was swinging along at a rate that showed no sign of his recent incapacity.  They were off again in their usual form, and Nome waited impatiently for word of the belated team.

In the next few hours the messages that reached the expectant city were full of thrills—­of hopes and fears.  Groups of excited people met to discuss again all phases of the contest; the freshness of the dogs, the stamina of the men, the possibility of accidents; for a broken harness, a refractory leader, an error in judgment, may mean overwhelming defeat at the eleventh hour.

Never in the annals of the Sweepstakes had the result been so doubtful, the chances so even.  The two Johnsons, Holmsen, Dalzene, Allan—­all men noted for their ability and fortitude—­men who would be picked out of the whole North to represent the best type of trailsmen, were nearly neck and neck, less than fifty miles from Nome, ready for the final dash.  And what a dash it was!