Into a damp, soggy camp on the left bank of the Yukon near the mouth of Sixty Mile, where fifty rough men awaited the breaking up of the ice, swung a dog team. Now, in the land of the long, lone trails a dog team arouses small comment—but when the team is a ten-team, each dog of which is a superbly muscled, finely poised malamute—and when the musher is a small boy with a square-set jaw, who stops the team in its tracks with a single, short, sharp word—the outfit becomes, at once, a thing of much interest. And especially is this true at a time when travel in the Northland, even for