But despite the familiar surroundings, MacShane realized that there was something lacking. The three drinks should have produced a mild exhilaration. A pleasant glow in his belly, and a faster coursing of the blood through his veins. At this very moment he should be feeling in a mood for comprehensive goodfellowship. He, too, should be placing his bets on the dog race. But, the liquor was taking an opposite effect. He felt depressed. His thought kept recurring to the girl on the trail. Why should he keep thinking of her? She was nothing to him. But, those eyes--those dark eyes that seemed to look deep into a man’s very soul. Suppose something should go wrong out there? It is a bleak country, the wind-swept trail to Candle. Why hadn’t he waited on the trail. A waiter dumped an array of thick dishes before him, and mechanically, MacShane ate. “She’ll be here tomorrow night,” he muttered, “If nothin’ happens.” For a long time after the finish of his meal he sat and watched the men at the bar, and at the card tables that lined one side of the room. Slow anger rose within him. Anger at the girl with the haunting eyes. Here was he, Burr MacShane, for the first time in years in a live camp, his pockets bulging with dust, good liquor for the ordering, dance halls, every ingredient of a good time, and yet, here he sat lugubriously watching others disport themselves, as he longed to be disporting himself. Yet the sport had lost its appeal. He could not understand it, and unconsciously his mind took an introspective turn. What did he want to do? There was no answer. Try as he would he could arouse no spark of enthusiasm for anything. He thought of the mass of loose rock at the end of his long trail. But, even the red gold had lost its appeal. In disgust, he rose from the table, paid for his meal, and walking straight to his hotel, went to bed. CHAPTER XXI THE PLOTTING OF JAKE DALZENE When Lou Gordon drove her dogs straight for the bright lights of Nome at the finish of their long run from Candle, she recognized the dark figure that waited beside the trail on the outskirts of the town, and halted the dogs with a word. A moment later she found herself pouring the story of the great run into the eager ears of this tall stranger, who listened with little nods of approval. When she had finished, the man went to the dogs and examined them one by one. “There ain’t a played-out dog in the bunch,” he announced, “Not one. They’ll do, all right. But how about you? You must be about all in.” The girl smiled into the face that peered so solicitously into her own. “Oh, I’m all right. I could do it over again, if I had to! I’m tired, of course. But I’m good for a whole lot yet.” “You’re game, all right, Miss Gordon, but I wish you wouldn’t drive that race. It ain’t a woman’s job. Tell you what--let me drive for you!” “No, indeed! No one can handle those dogs like I can. No, if I win, I’ve got to drive them myself--and I’ve got to win!”