“Jest as you say, Dan,” he replied, “but the ice is runnin’ pretty strong yet. Tomorrow, mebbe, she’d be cleaned up a bit.”
The Sergeant frowned:
“Look here. Rip. Tomorrow might be too late. D’you think I’m goin’ to set around an’ let that measly cur put anything over on this kid? Come alive, now, an’ throw in your stuff, or I’ll requisition your boat, an’ me an’ the kid’ll go it alone.”
“Aw, can that, Dan. Sure I’ll go. How long since you’ve et?” The man glanced toward the group of tents where smoke ascended from many fires. “Skookum Pete’s grub’s ready. Go an’ divide it between you an’ the kid, an’ ag’in ye’re done the scow’ll be loaded.”
Twenty minutes later the stout scow was shoved into the current and Rip Wade, expert riverman, took his place in the stern to do the steering, while Connie and Sergeant McKeever, each armed with a light spruce pole, sat well forward and made ready to fend the boat clear of floating ice. Amidships the wolf-dogs curled comfortably among the robes and packs, glad of a respite from the sodden snow-trail.
