everybody. He was a restless dog, always very busy snooping around or
going somewhere. And there was never a camp within five miles that he
didn't raid. The worst of it was that they always came back on us to pay
his board bill, which was just, being the law of the land; but it was
mighty hard on us, especially that first winter on the Chilcoot, when we
were busted, paying for whole hams and sides of bacon that we never ate.
He could fight, too, that Spot. He could do everything but work. He
never pulled a pound, but he was the boss of the whole team. The way he
made those dogs stand around was an education. He bullied them, and
there was always one or more of them fresh-marked with his fangs. But he
was more than a bully. He wasn't afraid of anything that walked on four
legs; and I've seen him march, single-handed into a strange team, without
any provocation whatever, and put the _kibosh_ on the whole outfit. Did
I say he could eat? I caught him eating the whip once. That's straight.
He started in at the lash, and when I caught him he was down to the
handle, and still going.

But he was a good looker. At the end of the first week we sold him for
seventy-five dollars to the Mounted Police. They had experienced dog-
drivers, and we knew that by the time he'd covered the six hundred miles
to Dawson he'd be a good sled-dog. I say we _knew_, for we were just
getting acquainted with that Spot. A little later we were not brash
enough to know anything where he was concerned. A week later we woke up
in the morning to the dangdest dog-fight we'd ever heard. It was that
Spot come back and knocking the team into shape. We ate a pretty
depressing breakfast, I can tell you; but cheered up two hours afterward
when we sold him to an official courier, bound in to Dawson with
government despatches. That Spot was only three days in coming back,
and, as usual, celebrated his arrival with a rough house.