They were flying, getting over the ground, making the most of the
packed trail. Later on they would come to the unbroken trail,
where three miles an hour would constitute good going. Then
there would be no riding and resting, and no running. Then the
gee-pole would be the easier task, and a man would come back to
it to rest after having completed his spell to the fore, breaking
trail with the snowshoes for the dogs. Such work was far from
exhilarating also, they must expect places where for miles at a
time they must toil over chaotic ice-jams, where they would be
fortunate if they made two miles an hour. And there would be the
inevitable bad jams, short ones, it was true, but so bad that a
mile an hour would require terrific effort. Kama and Daylight
did not talk. In the nature of the work they could not, nor in
their own natures were they given to talking while they worked.
At rare intervals, when necessary, they addressed each other in
monosyllables, Kama, for the most part, contenting himself with
grunts. Occasionally a dog whined or snarled, but in the main
the team kept silent. Only could be heard the sharp, jarring
grate of the steel runners over the hard surface and the creak of
the straining sled.

As if through a wall, Daylight had passed from the hum and roar
of the Tivoli into another world--a world of silence and
immobility. Nothing stirred. The Yukon slept under a coat of
ice three feet thick. No breath of wind blew. Nor did the sap
move in the hearts of the spruce trees that forested the river
banks on either hand. The trees, burdened with the last
infinitesimal pennyweight of snow their branches could hold,
stood in absolute petrifaction. The slightest tremor would have