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FTER the Point Barrow nightmare, Tib had no irresistible hankering to hurry back to the States. For the second time, under one contract, we had fallen down—in Greenland and on the bears. Of course we had picked up a lot of bargain-counter sales for the circus—seals, a musk-ox, and such knick-knacks—but no Big Show, ten-by-twenty-foot poster stuff. Consequently we wouldn't endanger our lives by crossing a crowded street to greet the disgruntled owner. So we rolled up our kits and told the captain of the Saucy Liz he must leave us at Skagway. It was sadly out of his beat, but my patron was the accredited agent of the Loud Noise down in the sunshine, and with a hatful of explicit and all-searching epithets the Liz grouchily turned her nose in by Sitka and we were delectated. If I remember correctly, the captain in parting earnestly explained how he would like to see a rabbit, well trained down, run continuously for a month, and then measure off the distance fairly and