"Gentlemen," he cried raucously, "both claims have been thrown out!"
A wild yell came from O'Grady. In a single flash four paddles struck the
water, and the two canoes shot bow and bow up the stream toward the lake
above the bend. The crowd ran even with them until the low swamp at the
lake's edge stopped them. In that distance neither had gained a yard
advantage. But there was a curious change of sentiment among those who
returned to Porcupine City. That night betting was no longer two and
three to one on O'Grady. It was even money.
For the last thing that the men of Porcupine City had seen was that cold,
quiet smile of Jan Larose, the gleam of his teeth, the something in his
eyes that is more to be feared among men than bluster and brute strength.
They laid it to confidence. None guessed that this race held for Jan no
thought of the gold at the end. None guessed that he was following out
the working of a code as old as the name of his race in the north.
As the canoes entered the lake the smile left Jan's face. His lips
tightened until they were almost a straight line. His eyes grew darker,
his breath came more quickly. For a little while O'Grady's canoe drew
steadily ahead of them, and when Jackpine's strokes went deeper and more
powerful Jan spoke to him in Cree, and guided the canoe so that it cut
straight as an arrow in O'Grady's wake. There was an advantage in that.
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