We spent the winter and spring, after our own outfit was across the pass, freighting other people’s outfits; and we made a fat stake.  Also, we made money out of Spot.  If we sold him once, we sold him twenty times.  He always came back, and no one asked for their money.  We didn’t want the money.  We’d have paid handsomely for any one to take him off our hands for keeps’.  We had to get rid of him, and we couldn’t give him away, for that would have been suspicious.  But he was such a fine looker that we never had any difficulty in selling him.  “Unbroke,” we’d say, and they’d pay any old price for him.  We sold him as low as twenty-five dollars, and once we got a hundred and fifty for him.  That particular party returned him in person, refused to take his money back, and the way he abused us was something awful.  He said it was cheap at the price to tell us what he thought of us; and we felt he was so justified that we never talked back.  But to this day I’ve never quite regained all the old self-respect that was mine before that man talked to me.

When the ice cleared out of the lakes and river, we put our outfit in a Lake Bennett boat and started for Dawson.  We had a good team of dogs, and of course we piled them on top the outfit.  That Spot was along—­there was no losing him; and a dozen times, the first day, he knocked one or another of the dogs overboard in the course of fighting with them.  It was close quarters, and he didn’t like being crowded.

“What that dog needs is space,” Steve said the second day.  “Let’s maroon him.”

We did, running the boat in at Caribou Crossing for him to jump ashore.  Two of the other dogs, good dogs, followed him; and we lost two whole days trying to find them.  We never saw those two dogs again; but the quietness and relief we enjoyed made us decide, like the man who refused his hundred and fifty, that it was cheap at the price.  For the first time in months Steve and I laughed and whistled and sang.  We were as happy as clams.  The dark days were over.  The nightmare had been lifted.  That Spot was gone.

Three weeks later, one morning, Steve and I were standing on the river-bank at Dawson.  A small boat was just arriving from Lake Bennett.  I saw Steve give a start, and heard him say something that was not nice and that was not under his breath.  Then I looked; and there, in the bow of the boat, with ears pricked up, sat Spot.  Steve and I sneaked immediately, like beaten curs, like cowards, like absconders from justice.  It was this last that the lieutenant of police thought when he saw us sneaking.  He surmised that there were law-officers in the boat who were after us.  He didn’t wait to find out, but kept us in sight, and in the M. & M. saloon got us in a corner.  We had a merry time explaining, for we refused to go back to the boat and meet Spot; and finally he held us under guard of another policeman while he went to the boat.  After we got clear