“Havin’ a hell of a time to find a driver for those Gordon dogs,” grinned the entry man, as MacShane reported the change of drivers. “First it was Stewart Gordon, then Lou Gordon, an’ now they’re changin’ it again. What name?” “Make it _Huloimee Tilakum_,” answered MacShane. “_Huloimee Tilakum!_ Jargon for Stranger, eh? All right, down she goes: _Huloimee Tilakum_. But, if John Johnson should break his neck, an’ Scotty an’ Eskimo John should founder themselves on strawberries, an’ you should happen to win the race, folks will be wantin’ to know a hell of a lot more about you than just The Stranger. They’ll be askin’ ‘Who is The Stranger’?” “Well, if they ask you,” grinned MacShane, “Just tell them all you know,” and turning on his heel, he pushed his way with difficulty through the dense throngs that crowded about the teams of Johnson, and Allen, and Eskimo John to the point where his own team waited, surrounded by a straggling group that eyed them indifferently. “There’ll be a different story to tell when this race is over,” he muttered savagely to himself, “They’ll be crowdin’ around these dogs fit to smother ’em--an’ they won’t know those other teams are alive.” It still lacked fifteen or twenty minutes of starting time; and MacShane’s eyes traveled up and down the street, resplendent in flags and bunting, and literally swarming with massed humanity. Never in his life had he seen so many people at one time. Indeed, he wondered whether all the people he had ever seen would equal in numbers the crowds that had collected to witness the start of the Alaska Sweepstakes, the great classic of the North. “Where do they all come from?” he speculated, “An’ where do they get the grub to feed ’em all?” The officers were clearing the street. Men, women and children surged back onto the sidewalks and lined the thoroughfare in two solid masses. In the street remained only the race teams and their drivers. Seven teams beside his own, MacShane counted, two of twelve dogs, three of fourteen, one of sixteen, and Johnson’s team of eighteen. A few moments later they lined up for the start, each driver standing beside his leader. Whips were in evidence, and realizing the possibility of Skookum’s running amuck amid the cracking of whips, MacShane contrived to be fumbling at the great leader’s collar when the shot sounded that started the racers over the long snow-trail. As the dog teams shot away a mighty roar of applause burst from thousands of throats. For a full minute, MacShane continued to work with the collar, and then, amid a vast chorus of jeers and cat-calls he gave the word, and Skookum led his team in the wake of the vanishing racers.