Wilcox stepped before them: “The race is to Johnny Atline’s an’ return,” he announced. “Bill Britton’s up there to see that all teams goes the hull route. The driver an’ sled, an’ every dog that starts has got to cross the line at the finish, an’ the outfit that crosses first wins. The committee, consistin’ of I, an’ Crim, an’ Henshaw is the judges, an’ Johnny Atline is the starter.” Wilcox paused and allowed his eyes to rest on the sullen face of Dalzene. “All passin’ on the trail must be done on the haw side. Any interferin’ whatever with another team will be a foul, the driver or team doin’ the interferin’ is throw’d out. Onnecessary crowdin’ hittin’, or hittin’ at, another team with the whip, throwin’ anything, or any other ways interferin’ with the runnin’ of a team is a foul. The trail’s plenty wide fer passin’ except in one or two stretches, an’ if any team piles up on one of them places, he’s got to haul out, an’ let the other teams pass.” “Who’s goin’ to prove this here interferin’?” growled Dalzene. “S’pose this here Gordon says I interfered, an’ claims a foul, it’ll be his word agin mine.” “In such case,” replied Wilcox, looking his questioner squarely in the eye. “It will be up to the judges which one to believe. We know you both, an’ in decidin’ we’ll naturally take the one’s word that’s got the best reputation. Git set, now. Atline, he’ll count three, an’ then fire his revolver, an’ at the crack of the gun you’re off!” Lou Gordon took her place beside the sled upon which her father was seated. “Be careful of the whip, dad,” she whispered, nervously. “I’ll start them, and I’ll be here at the finish.” Dalzene caught the last words. “Hold on, there!” he roared, “What business has that woman got startin’ them dogs? Git her out of there! If she’s goin’ to drive that team, she’s got to go the hull distance.” “Shut up, Dalzene!” called Wilcox. “Her givin’ the word to the dogs on the start ain’t drivin’ ’em. You got a right to have a dozen yellin’ at yourn on the start if you want to.” Dalzene subsided, and Atline took his position: “Ready! One. Two. Three.” Bang! At the report of the gun Lou Gordon’s voice rang clear. “Mush! Skookum, Mush-u! Mush!” Instantly the ten big dogs started, and before the words had fairly left the girl’s lips, they shot away over the ice, gaining speed at every jump, so that as the teams blurred and were swallowed up in the gloom of the Arctic day, the big ten team was well in the lead. “First distance race I ever seen that took a ridin’ start,” opined Crim, “The trail’s awful fast. They ort to make good time.” “They will make good time,” declared Lou Gordon, “If dad will only sit tight and forget his whip.” “That’s some dog--that leader, Miss Lou,” ventured Atline. “I don’t suppose you’d sell him?”