The journey to Nome had consumed but thirty-three of the allotted forty days, and during the week following her arrival, Lou Gordon rested from the long snow-trail. For a while each morning she worked with her dogs, getting them into condition, putting the finishing touches on them for the big race that was scheduled to start at nine o’clock on the morning of the thirteenth of April. The heavy trail-sled had been replaced by a strong, light affair, built for speed, yet braced throughout against possibility of damage upon the hard, wind-swept trail. During this first week in Nome, the girl was left very much to herself, her father spending the entire day, and sometimes half the night, among the dumps and the boilers of the beach line diggings. One morning, as she paused on the trail to make some slight adjustment of harness, a team of eighteen superb dogs halted beside her and a cheery voice greeted her from the depths of a close-drawn parka hood. “Need any help?” “No, thank you,” answered the girl, her eyes drinking in every detail of the eighteen great animals, “What wonderful dogs!” The man laughed; “They sure are. But that’s no scrub team you’re drivin’. Goin’ to enter ’em?” “Yes,” the girl smiled, “And I’m going to win, too!” “That’s the talk! Johnson’s my name--John Johnson.” “Oh, I’ve heard of you!” exclaimed Lou, “And I’ve heard of your team. Lots of people have picked you to win the Sweepstakes--you or Scotty Allen, or Fred Ayer.” Again she smiled: “But, that’s because they don’t know my dogs.” “I guess they don’t, all right. I don’t know ’em, an’ I thought I knew every race team in this part of the country. Where you from?” “From the Koyukuk. I am Lou Gordon.” “The Koyukuk!” exclaimed Johnson. “I didn’t know they bred good dogs over there. Did you come across from the Yukon?” “No, we came by the Kobuk.” “You’re some sourdough!” exclaimed Johnson, “To come that way. But all the Koyukukers are, as far as that goes. It must be a God-forsaken country up there.” “It’s the best country there is!” interrupted the girl, quickly. “That’s right! Say, I don’t mind tellin’ you that if I don’t win the big race myself I’d rather lose it to you than any one else. I like the way you talk. Are you goin’ to drive ’em yourself?” A slight frown puckered the girl’s forehead: “I want to drive them,” she confided, “But my dad thinks it is no job for a girl. He can’t see that I’ve actually grown up. And, really, I do handle them lots better than he does.” “I’ll bet you do! But, say--he’s dead right--about it not bein’ a girl’s job! Believe me, Miss Gordon, I know! She’s some trail! Especially if there’s a blizzard on.” “Do you know the trail?” “I sure do.” “Will you draw a map for me. I want to take them over the whole course before the race.” “Sure, I’ll map it for you. Where you stoppin’?”