"A prophet," exclaimed the Woman. "You see we are the forerunners. But who is Black Mart?"

"Oh, he's a miner that's workin' the claim next ter Golconda. He's a friend o' the cook there, an' comes over ter eat pretty often. Him and Moose had some trouble once over some minin' ground, an' Mart kinda takes it out on all Moose's friends, even if they's only boys an' dogs, don't he, Baldy?" And Baldy wagged that he certainly did. "Now the cook says they've got work dogs enough belongin' ter the claim ter feed, without supportin' my mangy cur in idleness. Mr. Allan," earnestly, "he ain't mangy, an' he's the most willin' dog I ever seen fer any one that loves him. But he ain't sociable with every one, an' he don't like bein' handled rough."

"Scotty" looked at Baldy with a practiced and critical eye. "Those are all points in his favor," he remarked. "You can't do much with a dog that gives his affection and obedience indiscriminately."

"Besides, he ain't no cur—he's one o' them Bowen-Dalzene pups, an' you know there ain't a poor dog in the lot. They give him to me 'cause he wasn't like any o' the others in the litter, an' would 'a' spoiled the looks o' the team when they was old enough ter be hitched up," continued Ben breathlessly. "He was sort o' wild, too, an' he wouldn't pay attention t' any of 'em when I was round, an' they said I might as well take him fer keeps as t' have him runnin' away t' git t' me all the time."

"And your mother does not like him, and thinks it would be best not to keep him now?"

"She really does like him; but she does the washin' fer the Camp, an' helps with the dishes, an' sews when she kin git a job at it. But there ain't none of 'em reg'lar, an' sometimes there ain't more'n enough fer us two t' live on. Then she gits pretty tired an' discouraged like, an' says Baldy's a useless expense, an' keeps me from doin' my chores, 'cause I like t' play with him, an'—"

"Yes, yes, I see," broke in the Woman hastily, anxious to spare him any further revelations of a painful nature. "I know exactly how it is; but maybe we could make some arrangement with your mother about the dog. We will take a sort of an option on him; you can keep him with you, and we will pay a certain sum for the privilege of being permitted to buy him outright before the stampede actually begins."

The boy looked at her suspiciously, but there was no smile on her lips, and she rose a notch in his estimation. She evidently did realize, in a slight degree, what an unusual bargain was being offered in his heart-breaking sacrifice.

"An' it ain't 'cause his appetite's gone that makes him thin. I wasn't tellin' the truth about that," he stammered desperately; "he's jest hungry." The child's mouth quivered and he hesitated, yet he was determined to tell the whole of the sordid little tragedy now that he had begun. "But spendin' too much time with him when I should be workin' ain't the worst. To-day I done somethin' that mebbe she'll think ain't exac'ly square; an' my mother believes if you ain't square in this world you ain't much worth while."

"You're not, son," agreed "Scotty" heartily. "Your mother's right."

"My father was allers called Honest Ben Edwards out here on the Third Beach Line, an' Mother says she'd ruther have that mem'ry o' him than all the fortunes that's been made in Alaska by lyin' an' steal-in' an' jumpin' other people's claims."

"Right again, Ben. Nothing can take that from her, and a name like that is the best thing a man can leave his son."

"This mornin' she gave me some money fer a new pair o' mittens fer her, an' shoes fer me; an' the cook asked me t' buy a kitchen knife an' a few pans fer him. I walked inter town t' git 'em, an' Baldy come with me, though she said I was foolish t' be bothered with him. But I told her it was awful lonesome on the trail, an' she said I could take him this time." He paused for breath, visibly embarrassed.

"And you forgot all about your errands," hazarded the Woman.

"No, ma'am, I didn't exac'ly forgit, but when I was passin' the Court House an' I seen a big crowd inside, I went in, too, ter listen a minute.

"That lawyer Fink, that got up the Kennel Club, an' has the bully dog team, an' Daly, the feller with the smile that makes you feel like there's sunshine in the room, was a-talkin' agin each other; an' their fightin' was so excitin' an' so smooth an' perlite too, that everybody was a-settin' on the edges o' their chairs a-waitin' fer what was a-comin' next."

"So you were interested in what the lawyers had to say?"

"Yes, sir. Ever since my mother told me the story about President Lincoln a while ago, I been wantin' t' be a lawyer when I grow up. He didn't have no more book-learnin' than me at first, but he wouldn't let nothin' stop him, an' jest see what he done."

"Lincoln is to be your model, then? Well, you're right to aim high, Ben. You can practice his simple virtues of being honest and kind and industrious every day, and anywhere. And the education must be managed someway," added the Woman thoughtfully.

"After Mother read me that speech o' Mr. Lincoln's at Gettysburg, when all the people was jest dumb from their feelin's bein' so solemn an' deep; an' some o' his other speeches that was fine, I begun t' go t' town whenever there was t' be any good speakin', even when I had t' walk both ways."

"Shows your determination, as a starter," replied "Scotty" encouragingly. "And were you always repaid for your tramp?"

"Most allers, Mr. Allan. Last Fourth o' July I heerd Judge Tucker tell in his pleasant voice 'at sounds like he likes talkin' t' you all that Virginia's done fer our country, an' I wished I was from Virginia too. But mebbe some day I'll make some boy wish he was from Alaska by bein' fine an' smart an' gentle like Judge Tucker."

"Virginia or Alaska, Ben—it's all the same, so long as you're proud of your state, and give your state a chance to be proud of you."

"Yes, ma'am; that's what Mother says. Then I heerd Tom Gaffney recitin' Robert Emmett's last speech, on St. Patrick's day, at Eagle Hall, an' I near cried at the end; an' I don't cry easy. It takes somethin' pretty bad t' make me cry," and he looked furtively toward Baldy.

"I'm sure it does, sonny; any one can see that you're game, all right; but that speech always makes me cry too."

The boy regarded "Scotty" appreciatively. Here was a typical Alaskan, a sturdy trailsman, touched by the tender, pitiful things of life, just like a little boy that hasn't had time to become hardened. Ben felt that they would be friends.

SCOTTY AND BALDY

"I like all kinds o' speakin', too; not jest the fiery sort that makes you want t' fight fer your country, an' mebbe die fer it like Robert Emmett; but the kind that jest makes you want t' be good ter folks an' dogs, an' do the best you kin when things is agin you, an' you don't see much ahead—"

The Woman nodded gravely. "Yes, I know. It's the most difficult sort of bravery—the sort without flags, and music, and cheers to keep you up to the firing line."

"That's the kind, ma'am. Mebbe you know Bishop Rowe. That's what he preaches—jest doin' your best all the time, like you was in some big race. When he's in Nome I allers go t' St. Mary's. He talks plain an' simple, an' cheers you up—I guess kinda the way Lincoln talked—jest like he knew all about people's troubles an' didn't blame 'em fer mistakes, but wanted t' help 'em t' do better. Sometimes his talks don't sound smooth, an' made up beforehand, but you never forgit 'em."

"Eloquence of the heart instead of the tongue," murmured the Woman.

"An' last August I went every night fer near a week, when Mr. Wickersham was talkin' men inter sendin' him t' Washington, no matter what they felt an' said agin his goin' when