big, rough men who yelled and danced and flung caps and even mackinaws high into the air. And then, suddenly, from the direction of the jam, came another sound as the big floe struck the barrier. Higher and higher it climbed, tearing, grinding, smashing—until suddenly it broke in two and the upper half crashed backward with the roar of an exploding mountain. The whole jam trembled a moment and then let go, and the next instant the wide Yukon was a mass of tossing, heaving, crunching ice-cakes.
Big Sergeant Dan McKeever, of the Royal North-west Mounted Police, grasped the hand of his small deliverer in a mighty grip:
“It looked like my last patrol, kid—an’ if it hadn’t be’n for you—” The words ceased and the man’s eyes sought the reaches of the river where a broad field of ice-cakes flashed silver in the rays of the noonday sun. The boy laughed.
“Oh, it was the dogs!” he said. “It was lucky I hadn't unharnessed.”
“Dawgs nawthin’!” exclaimed a man. “Here stud us gillies an’ never even thought of no dawgs—let alone whip-lashin’ that there t’boggan acrost th’ open water!”
