There was, in a way, a certain injustice in Dubby's contempt for what
might be called the sporting element of the stable; for, like college
athletes, they were only sports incidentally, and for the greater part
of the year they were as ready and willing to do a hard day's work in
carrying goods to the creeks as were the more commonplace dogs who had
never won distinction on the Trail.

But Dubby was ultra-conservative; and while "Scotty" must have had some
strange human reason for all of these silly dashes with an absolutely
empty sled, in his opinion hauling a boiler up to Hobson Creek would be
a far more efficacious means of exercise, and would be a practical
accomplishment besides. Dubby was of a generation that knew not racing.
Of noted McKenzie River parentage, he came from Dawson, where he was
born, down the Yukon to Nome with "Scotty" Allan. He had led a team of
his brothers and sisters, six in all, the entire distance of twelve
hundred miles, early manifesting that definite acknowledged mastery over
the others that is indispensable in a good leader. He had realized what
it meant to be a Pioneer, had penetrated with daring men the waste
places in search of fame, fortune and adventure; and had carried the
heavy burdens of gold wrested from rock-ribbed mountain, and bouldered
river bed. He had helped to take the United States Mail to remote and
inaccessible districts, and had sped with the Doctor and Priest to the
bedside of the sick or dying in distant, lonely cabins.

He and his kind have ever shared the toil of the development of that
desolate country that stretches from the ice-bound Arctic to where the
gray and sullen waters of Bering Sea break on a bleak and wind-swept
shore. They figure but little in the forest-crowned Alaska of the
South, with its enchanted isles, emerald green, in the sunlit, silver