At last we put into port in Canada. Fooks and I thanked the captain, took leave of him and went ashore. As for Lom, we managed to smuggle him on shore the next night. The three of us took a table in a quiet tavern and began discussing our further plans.
   We finally decided that the shortest cut home would be by land: from Canada to Alaska, then across the Bering Strait and we would be in Chukotka. There we'll find a way. So far so good. But what about the means of conveyance? It was winter in Canada, the rivers were frozen over, there was no railway connection with Alaska and it was too cold for a car trip. Boats would not be running there until next spring.
   We decided that we must buy ourselves a sled and some draught animals-either a reindeer or a dog team. I went to look for a sled, Lom went in search of a reindeer and Fooks volunteered to buy dogs.
   I bought a very good sled-big, strong and handsome. Lom was not so lucky. His deer looked a bit scrawny, had a spotted coat and, as experts said, his hooves were too narrow.
   We decided to try it out, harnessed it to the sled and urged it on with shouts of "Gidding-up!"
  But the deer was no pacer. On snow it put up a more or less decent performance but on river ice it stalled for good. Its legs kept slipping every which way.
   I saw that it needed to be shod if we wanted to get anywhere. But where were we to find deer-shoes?
   At this point the letter board I had taken off the yacht came in handy. I had not been lugging it along for nothing after all. We prized off the brass letters and used the very same screws to attach them to the deer's hooves. It helped as far as the drift went, but the lazy animal still refused to run properly.
   Then Fooks came with his purchase. It was a smallish dog with a pointed muzzle, which, the papers attested, was a prize-winning dog-team leader. Well, we decided we shall harness it in the lead, as a lookout, so to speak.
   But putting the couple between the shafts did not prove easy. It wasn't so bad with the deer—we slipped our ring-buoy on its neck instead of a collar (so the buoy came in handy too). But the dog snarled and snapped, and there was no managing it.
   Still we got the better of it in the end. We made it a shaft-bow, dragged it between the shafts and let go.
   You should have seen the rumpus that followed! The deer hit out with its forelegs and shook its horns, the dog growled and yelped and tried to turn round, and as a result the team was moving backwards at a fair pace.
   I wondered if we should set on our way back astern, so to speak, but decided to try and switch their places first. They say in algebra that the order in which the numbers are is immaterial, but here the rule was proved wrong. As soon as we reversed our animals, the deer shot ahead like a blue streak and the dog gave chaise, gnashing his teeth and howling but also pulling like a locomotive.
   Lom and I barely managed to tumble into the sled, while Fooks clutched at a rope and was dragged along in this fashion like an ice anchor for half a mile.
   That was some race, let me tell you. I did not have a log with me to measure the speed, and anyway it wouldn't have been much use on ice. But judging by the objects on the river bank, the speed was terrific. Villages flashed past in a blur, the sled jolted on ice-humps, the wind whistled in our ears.
   Steam gushed forth from the deer's nostrils, its hooves typed out in a staccatto like an Underwood typewriter: R-A-G-E.
   The dog kept up with it, its tongue lolling.
   Before we knew where we were we reached the frontier of Alaska. I saw sheriffs with guns and flags and decided to brake-after all one had to observe the formalities while crossing a border. So I shouted to my team:
   "Ease off there! Whoa!"
   But there was no stopping my deer, it just cantered along at top speed.
   At this point a sheriff waved a handkerchief, the others shot a volley... I thought they were shooting at us and fell flat on the bottom of the sled. But no, nobody seemed hurt and we raced ahead. In another five minutes we overtook a dog team, then another two and then I stopped counting - there were so many.
  The drivers urged their teams for all they were worth, while I would have been quite happy to go slowly, but there was no holding my pair of pacers. Soon Fort Yukon appeared round the bend.
   I saw a crowd of people on the ice of the river, shouting, waving and shooting into the air. They stamped and jumped so violently that the ice began to cave in.
   The crowd parted and I saw a huge ice hole dead ahead. We were approaching it at breakneck speed. Seeing that the situation was critical, I leaned the sled sideways, the shafts broke and the entire crew was dumped into the snow. The deer, meantime, could not stop itself in time and fell into the water, harness, dog and all.
   They might have drowned too, but the buoy kept them on the surface. I jumped up to see them swimming and snorting.
   Then some volunteer helpers brought a lasso, caught the deer by the horns and pulled. And what do you think? The vaunted adornment of a noble animal became detached and under them we saw short cow-like horns. These luckily were securely fastened, and the team was pulled out on the ice. The deer shook itself, licked its nostrils and suddenly gave a mournful moo.