“Moose Jones said they had t’ break his tusks t’ use him at all, an’ that it took three men t’ hold him away from his driver sometimes; an’ that ‘Scotty’ was the only man in the whole North that could git the best of him without breakin’ his spirit.  An’ he seems terrible fond o’ ’Scotty’—­I mean Mr. Allan—­now.”

“You may call him ‘Scotty,’ Ben; he doesn’t mind in the least.  He’s ‘Scotty’ to every Alaskan from Juneau to Barrow, Eskimos included—­age no restraint.  Yes, Jack is fond of ‘Scotty,’ but it took a battle royal to bring about this permanent peace.”

“It’s a wonder he wasn’t killed before you an’ ‘Scotty’ got him, if they was all so scared t’ handle him.”

“He would have been killed except that his enormous strength and unusual alertness made him too valuable.  So in spite of their fears they kept him, but he was watched incessantly; and after his tusks were broken he became even more rebellious, and grew to distrust every one about him.  Poor old fellow.”  She turned the handsome head toward the boy.  “Look at him, Ben.  Would you believe that they used to frighten naughty children by telling them that Jack was out looking for them?”

It was a fact that his name had once carried a suggestion of grim terror and impending disaster in Nome.  And the dark hint that McMillan of the Broken Tusks was in the neighborhood struck consternation to the hearts of infant malefactors, and had been the source of much unwilling virtue, and many a politic repentance on the part of those offenders hitherto only impressed by the threatened arrival of the Policeman.

Ben regarded Jack with admiration and pity.  He was sorry for even a dog that has been misunderstood.

“No, ma’am, he don’t look vicious, but he sure does look powerful.  If a man had a whole team like Jack there’d hardly be a chanct t’ beat him, I s’pose.”

“I’m not so sure of that, Ben.  Of course the team counts for a great deal; so, too, does the skill of the driver.  But there are many other things that enter into this contest that do not have to be considered usually.  Given a mile of smooth track and horses in perfect condition, well mounted, the fastest one is apt to win.  In a race that lasts for over three days and nights, however, through the roughest sort of country, in weather that may range from a thaw to a blizzard, and with fifteen or twenty dogs to manage, the Luck of the Trail is an enormous factor.  One team may run into a storm, and be delayed for hours, that another may escape entirely; and a trivial accident may put the best team and driver entirely out of commission.”

“That’s so,” agreed Danny.  “That’s what happened the year ‘Scotty’ lost the race to Seppala, an’ came in second.  Don’t you know, George, your father told us it was near the end o’ the run, an’ the dogs was gettin’ pretty tired, so he put a loose leader at the head t’ give ’em new life—­sort t’ ginger ’em up.  I guess that dog