There could be no doubt but what Jan chose more wisely than he knew in entering that tent.

On the morning of the ninth day—­Jim Willis’s word was a little better than the bonds of some men—­after the departure for the south of Beeching and Harry, Willis hit the trail upon the commission he had undertaken for Mike and Jock; or for the more richly moneyed powers behind those two.

Willis’s team consisted of five huskies, good workers all; and he traveled pretty light, with a sled packed and lashed as only an old hand at the trail can perform that task.  But the queer thing about the outfit was that Willis had a sixth dog with him, a dog half as large again as any in the traces; and this one walked at Jim’s heel, idle; though, at the outset, it had taken some sharp talk to get him there.  Indeed, the big dog had almost fought for a place at the head of the team of huskies.  But Jim Willis was accustomed to see to it that his will, not theirs, ruled all the dogs he handled; and as he had decided that this particular dog should, for the present, run loose at his heels, the thing fell out thus, and not otherwise.

In nine days Jan had made a really wonderful recovery.  He was not strong and hard yet, of course; but, as every one who had observed his case admitted, it was something of a miracle that he should be alive at all.  And here he was setting out upon a fourteen-hundred-mile journey, and, to begin with, fighting for a place in the traces.

“If I have any more of your back-talk, my gentleman,” Jim Willis had said, with gruff apparent sternness, “I’ll truss you like a Thanksgiving turkey an’ lash you atop the sled.  So you get to heel an’ stay there.  D’ye hear me?”

And Jan, not without a hint of convalescent peevishness, had heard, and dropped behind.

The bones of his big frame were still a deal too prominent, and he carried more than even the bloodhound’s proper share of loose, rolling skin.  But his fine black and iron-gray coat had regained its gleaming vitality; his tread, if still a little uncertain, was springy; his dark hazel eyes showed bright and full of spirit above their crimson haws; his stern was carried more than half erect, and he was gaining weight in almost every hour; not mere fatty substance—­Willis saw to that—­but the genuine weight that comes with swelling muscles and the formation of healthy flesh.

“There’s nothing like the trail for a pick-me-up,” said Jim Willis.  And as the days slipped past, and the miles of silent whiteness were flung behind his sled, it became apparent that he was in the right of it, so far, at all events, as Jan was concerned.

It was exactly forty-two days later that they sighted salt water again and were met in the town’s one street by Mike and Jock.  And on that day, as on each of twenty preceding days, Willis’s team consisted of six dogs, instead of five, and the leader of the team was half as big again as his mates.  It was noticed that Willis’s whip was carried jammed in the lower lashing of his sled-pack, instead of in his hand.  He had learned as much, and more, than Jean had ever known about Jan’s powers as a team-leader.