he wasn't before 'em."

"You have certainly had a variety of orators, and a wide range of subjects."

"You kin see I ain't missed a single chanct t' hear any of 'em since I made up my mind t' be a great man"—and then appalled by his lengthy burst of eloquence the child colored violently and concluded in confusion—"an' this mornin' I got so interested in them speeches o' Daly's an' Fink's, I must 'a' lost all track o' time, fer when I come out it was noon, an' Baldy was gone."

"You must indeed have been absorbed to forget Baldy. Where did you find him?"

"One o' the school kids told me the pound-man had got him, so I went over t' the pound on the Sand Spit as fast as I could run. I explained t' the man that Baldy wasn't a Nome dog; that we live five miles out at Golconda—but he said he was gittin' pretty sick o' that excuse. That no boy's dog ever really lived in Nome, so fur's he could find out; that all of 'em was residin' in the suburbs, an' only come in t' spend a day now an' then."

"It's a strange thing," mused the Woman, "that all pound-men are sarcastic and sceptical. It seems an inevitable part of their occupation. They never believed me when I was a little girl, either. Then what?"

"He said the only thing that concerned him was that Baldy was in town when he found him, and hadn't no license. Besides, he thought the dog was vicious 'cause he growled when the wire was around his neck. Pretty near any dog 'ud do that ef he had any spirit in him; an' Baldy's jest full o' spirit."

Both the Woman and "Scotty" looked involuntarily at Baldy who stood, dejected and uneasy; and then exchanged a glance in which amusement and pity struggled for expression.

"The pound-man said ef I didn't pay the $2.50 t' git him out, an' another $2.50 t' git him a license, he'd sell the dog along with a lot o' others he'd ketched durin' the week. I tuk Mother's money, an' what the cook give me, an' got Baldy out, an' bought him a license so's he'd be safe nex' time. Now," sadly, "there ain't goin' t' be any nex' time."

"There really did not seem to be any other way out of it for the moment," observed the Woman sympathetically.

"No, ma'am, but it wasn't very honest t' use the cook's money, ner Mother's; it'll take a long time t' pay 'em back, an' I guess Mother won't have much patience with Baldy after this. I wouldn't mind gittin' punished myself, but I don't want him blamed. He'd be a lot better off with you, Mr. Allan; an' mebbe ef you'd feed him up, an' give him a chanct, he'd be a racer some day. He'd never lay down on you, an'," almost defiantly, "he's got good legs."

"Scotty" felt the dog's legs, and noted the breadth of his chest. "What do you want for him, Ben?"

"Would ten dollars be too much?" asked the boy, eagerly.

"Ten dollars would be too little," quickly exclaimed the Woman. "You see we are getting ahead of all the others who do not know his fine points yet, and we should be willing to pay something extra for this opportunity. Do you think that twenty-five dollars would be fair, considering that we are in on the ground floor?"

"Yes, ma'am, that's lots more'n I expected. But it ain't so much the money I'm gittin' as the home he's gittin' an' the trainin' an' all."

"Well, that's a bargain, then; come to my husband's office—Darling and Dean, on Front Street, you know—the first time you are in town, and we will give you a check; and you can bring Baldy with you then."

"I guess," slowly, "you'd better take him now. It 'ud be easier fer me t' let him go while I'm kinda worked up to it. Mebbe ef I thought about it fer a few days I wouldn't be able t' do it, an' he mightn't have another chanct like this in his whole life."

He drew a frayed bit of rope from a torn pocket, and tied it to the old strap that served as Baldy's collar—handing the end to "Scotty."

In the deepening shadows of the chill November dusk the boy's face was ashen. He stooped over as if to see that the knot in the rope was secure at the dog's neck—but the Woman knew in that brief instant the trembling blue lips had been pressed in an agony of renunciation against Baldy's rough coat.

"Thank you both very much," he said in a tone that he tried to keep steady. "Thank you fer the ride and fer—fer everything."

He did not trust himself to look at the dog again, but stepped quickly into the Golconda Trail.

"You must come to see Baldy often," the Woman called to him.

"Yes, ma'am, I'll be glad to—after a while," he replied gratefully.

And then as "Scotty" gave the word to the impatient Racers, and the team swung round to return to Nome, there came to them out of the grayness a voice, faint and quavering like an echo—"Some day you'll be glad you've got Baldy."

II

Where Every Dog Has His Day

CHAPTER II

WHERE EVERY DOG HAS HIS DAY

Baldy's entrance into the Allan and Darling Kennel had failed to attract the interest that the arrival of a new inmate usually created. He was an accident, not an acquisition, and the little comment upon his presence was generally unfavorable.

Even Matt, who took care of the dogs, and was a sort of godfather to them all, shook his head dubiously over Baldy. "He don't seem to belong here, someway," had been his mild criticism; while the Woman complained to "Scotty" that he was one of the most unresponsive dogs she had ever known.

"He's not exactly unresponsive," maintained "Scotty" justly; "but he's self-contained, and it's hard for him to adjust himself to these recent changes. It's all strange to him, and he misses the boy. You can't watch him with Ben and say that he's not affectionate; but he gives his affection slowly, and to but few people. One must earn it."

The Woman regarded Baldy with amused contempt. "So one must work hard for his affection, eh? Well, with all of the attractive dogs here willing to lavish their devotion upon us, I think it would hardly be worth while trying to coax Baldy's reluctant tolerance into something warmer."

"Scotty" admitted that Baldy could hardly be considered genial. "He's like some people whose natures are immobile—inexpressive. It's going to take a little while to find out if it's because there is nothing to express, or because he is undemonstrative, and has to show by his conduct rather than by his manners what there is to him."

It was true that Baldy was unmistakably ill at ease in his new quarters, and did not feel at home; for he was accustomed neither to the luxuries nor to the restrictions that surrounded him. His early experiences had been distinctly plebeian and uninteresting, but they had been quite free of control.

Born at one of the mining claims in the hills, of worthy hard-working parents, he had, with the various other members of the family, been raised to haul freight from town to the mine. But his attachment for Ben Edwards had intervened, and before he was really old enough to be thoroughly broken to harness, he had taken up his residence at Golconda.

Here his desultory training continued, but a lesson in sled pulling was almost invariably turned into a romp, so that he had only acquired the rudiments of an education when he came under "Scotty's" supervision.

His complete ignorance in matters of deportment, and possibly, too, his retiring disposition, made him feel an intruder in the