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 Until dawn the two matchless teams held on together, the Scotchman setting the pace.

At dawn they stopped at Dead Man's Hill for a bite to eat and to throw the dogs each his portion. But neither man stopped to sleep. The part of the race was still ahead and every minute counted.

All that day they raced over the frozen trail, the whining of the runners and the tinkle of the bells and the panting of the straining dogs making arduous music in their ears. By twilight they reached Forest. Sixty-four miles from Nome, the goal of the race. Sixty-four long, weary miles, miles that strained men's hearts almost to the breaking point. The last sixty-four miles where nerve and will and superhuman endurance all counted. Only men with souls like gods could stay in at the finish in this race, and only dogs with the brains of dogs and the endurance of wolves could win.

Here the dogs were again fed and the men took a hasty supper and a short rest,