Here the first relays waited. But here,
intent to kill their first teams, if necessary, Harrington and Savoy had
had their fresh teams placed a couple of miles beyond those of the
others. In the confusion of changing sleds they passed full half the
bunch. Perhaps thirty men were still leading them when they shot on to
the broad breast of the Yukon. Here was the tug. When the river froze
in the fall, a mile of open water had been left between two mighty jams.
This had but recently crusted, the current being swift, and now it was as
level, hard, and slippery as a dance floor. The instant they struck this
glare ice Harrington came to his knees, holding precariously on with one
hand, his whip singing fiercely among his dogs and fearsome abjurations
hurtling about their ears. The teams spread out on the smooth surface,
each straining to the uttermost. But few men in the North could lift
their dogs as did Jack Harrington. At once he began to pull ahead, and
Louis Savoy, taking the pace, hung on desperately, his leaders running
even with the tail of his rival's sled.
Midway on the glassy stretch their relays shot out from the bank.
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