“It’s going to be a hard choice,” the Woman mused as she glanced down the long line of stalls on either side, and one end, of the roomy stable.

“Scotty” paused before the Mego dogs that had fought so valiantly for first honors in the Juvenile Race.

[Illustration:  CAPTAIN HAAS OF THE FRENCH ARMY, AND HIS ALASKAN SLEDGES]

“Excellent,” observed Captain Haas, as he looked them over carefully.  “Strong, intelligent, fleet,” and “Scotty” wrote the names of Judge, Jimmie and Pete.

“I knew I was a pretty good judge o’ dogs,” announced Dan with pleased conviction; “but there’s some class t’ bein’ a judge backed up by the French Government,” and he regarded his former team with mingled feelings of regret and satisfaction.

On they went, adding name after name to the fast growing list.

“Not Tom, Dick and Harry,” the Woman exclaimed as they came to the Tolmans.  “These Veterans have served us too long and too loyally.”  And “Scotty” nodded silently.

“Irish and Rover?”

But before the question could be answered, the gentle Irish Setters gazed into her eyes beseechingly, and nosed her sleeve, confident of a caress.

“Impossible,” she murmured hastily; “they are our dear comrades.  And Spot,” with an emphatic shake of the head, “belongs to George.”

Finally they paused at the last two stalls and looked from Jack McMillan to Baldy.  McMillan tugged violently at his chain, striving to reach the Woman; while Baldy, as though he understood it all, crept close to “Scotty’s” side.

Captain Haas knew both of the dogs well.  He had seen Jack turned from a career of rebellion and unrest to one of willing patient service; and Baldy, plodding, obscure, hard working Baldy, become the boast of the whole North.

“Here are the two,” admiringly, “that please me most of all.  McMillan’s strength is superb—­Baldy’s endurance unparalleled.  What War Dogs they would make!  One I must have; it matters little which.  The price—­” he gave an eloquent gesture of complete indifference.

The Woman stroked Jack’s sable muzzle gently.  She thought of the old days when his name was once a symbol of all that was fierce and wolf-like and wicked in the annals of Nome; and then of his unbroken spirit and steadfast allegiance to her.  “McMillan of the Broken Tusks,” she said softly, “has no price.”

Then, eagerly, “Baldy?”

“I cannot give Baldy up,” was the firm reply.  “He has led the team in three great victories; and he did not desert me when I lay freezing and helpless, alone in the snow.”  “Scotty’s” hand rested lovingly on the ugly dark head pressed so tightly, so trustfully against him.  “He’s a wonderful leader and my faithful friend.”

“I understand,” the Captain said, and turned away.  “The list is now complete.”

And in the dusk of the Kennel, as once on the Golconda Trail, the boy’s wet cheek was laid tenderly against the dog’s rough coat; but the tears that fell now were tears of joy.  “Oh, Baldy,” he whispered happily, “some day you’ll be with me Outside.  We’ll do things there some day.”