‘When did Westondale pull out?’ he asked.  ’He stopped here, didn’t he?’ This was supererogatory, for the tracks told their own tale too well.

Malemute Kid had caught Belden’s eye, and he, scenting the wind, replied evasively, ‘A right peart while back.’  ’Come, my man; speak up,’ the policeman admonished.

‘Yeh seem to want him right smart.  Hez he ben gittin’ cantankerous down Dawson way?’

’Held up Harry McFarland’s for forty thousand; exchanged it at the P.C. store for a check on Seattle; and who’s to stop the cashing of it if we don’t overtake him?  When did he pull out?’

Every eye suppressed its excitement, for Malemute Kid had given the cue, and the young officer encountered wooden faces on every hand.

Striding over to Prince, he put the question to him.  Though it hurt him, gazing into the frank, earnest face of his fellow countryman, he replied inconsequentially on the state of the trail.

Then he espied Father Roubeau, who could not lie.  ’A quarter of an hour ago,’ the priest answered; ‘but he had four hours’ rest for himself and dogs.’  ‘Fifteen minutes’ start, and he’s fresh!  My God!’ The poor fellow staggered back, half fainting from exhaustion and disappointment, murmuring something about the run from Dawson in ten hours and the dogs being played out.

Malemute Kid forced a mug of punch upon him; then he turned for the door, ordering the dog drivers to follow.  But the warmth and promise of rest were too tempting, and they objected strenuously.  The Kid was conversant with their French patois, and followed it anxiously.

They swore that the dogs were gone up; that Siwash and Babette would have to be shot before the first mile was covered; that the rest were almost as bad; and that it would be better for all hands to rest up.

‘Lend me five dogs?’ he asked, turning to Malemute Kid.

But the Kid shook his head.

’I’ll sign a check on Captain Constantine for five thousand—­here’s my papers—­I’m authorized to draw at my own discretion.’

Again the silent refusal.

‘Then I’ll requisition them in the name of the Queen.’  Smiling incredulously, the Kid glanced at his well-stocked arsenal, and the Englishman, realizing his impotency, turned for the door.  But the dog drivers still objecting, he whirled upon them fiercely, calling them women and curs.  The swart face of the older half-breed flushed angrily as he drew himself up and promised in good, round terms that he would travel his leader off his legs, and would then be delighted to plant him in the snow.

The young officer—­and it required his whole will—­walked steadily to the door, exhibiting a freshness he did not possess.  But they all knew and appreciated his proud effort; nor could he veil the twinges of agony that shot across his face.  Covered with frost, the dogs were curled up in the snow, and it was almost impossible to get them to their feet.  The poor brutes whined under the stinging lash, for the dog drivers were angry and cruel; nor till Babette, the leader, was cut from the traces, could they break out the sled and get under way.