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the dogs is licking him. Wants to know what has become of you,
and I don t know how to tell him. Mebbe he is going to die. It was
as Matt had said. White Fang had ceased eating, lost heart, and
allowed every dog of the team to thrash him. In the cabin he lay on
the floor near the stove, without interest in food, in Matt, nor in
life. Matt might talk gently to him or swear at him, it was all the
same; he never did more than turn his dull eyes upon the man,
then drop his head back to its customary position on his forepaws.
And then, one night, Matt, reading to himself with moving lips and
mumbled sounds, was startled by a low whine from White Fang.
He had got upon his feet, his ears cocked toward the door, and he
was listening intently. A moment later, Matt heard a footstep. The
door opened, and Weedon Scott stepped in. The two men shook
hands. Then Scott looked around the room.
Where s the wolf? he asked.
Then he discovered him, standing where he had been lying, near to
the stove.
He had not rushed forward after the manner of other dogs. He
stood, watching and waiting.
Holy Smoke! Matt exclaimed. Look at m wag his tail! Weedon
Scott strode half across the room toward him, at the same time
calling him. White Fang came to him, not with a great bound, yet
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quickly. He was awkward from self-consciousness, but as he drew
near, his eyes took on a strange expression. Something, an
incommunicable vastness of feeling, rose up into his eyes as a light
and shone forth.
He never looked at me that way all the time you was gone, Matt
commented.
Weedon Scott did not hear. He was squatting down on his heels,
face to face with White Fang and petting him- rubbing at the roots
of the ears, making long, caressing strokes down the neck to the
shoulders, tapping the spine gently with the balls of his fingers.
And White Fang was growling responsively, the crooning note of
the growl more pronounced than ever.
But that was not all. What of his joy, the great love in him, ever
surging and struggling to express itself, succeeded in finding a
new mode of expression. He suddenly thrust his head forward and
nudged his way in between the master s arm and body. And here,
confined, hidden from view all except his ears, no longer growling,
he continued to nudge and snuggle.
The two men looked at each other. Scott s eyes were shining.
Gosh! said Matt in an awe-stricken voice.
A moment later, when he had recovered himself, he said, I always
insisted that wolf was a dog. Look at m! With the return of the
love-master, White Fang s recovery was rapid. Two nights and a
day he spent in the cabin. Then he sallied forth. The sled-dogs had
forgotten his prowess. They remembered only the latest, which
was his weakness and sickness. At the sight of him as he came out
of the cabin, they sprang about him.
Talk about your rough-houses, Matt murmured gleefully,
standing in the doorway and looking on. Give m hell, you wolf!
Give m hell!- and then some! White Fang did not need the
encouragement. The return of the love-master was enough. Life
was flowing through him again, splendid and indomitable. He
fought from sheer joy, finding in it an expression of much that he
felt and that otherwise was without speech. There could be but one
ending. The team dispersed in ignominious defeat, and it was not
until after dark that the dogs came sneaking back, one by one, by
meekness and humility signifying their fealty to White Fang.
Having learned to snuggle, White Fang was guilty of it often. It
was the final word. He could not go beyond it. The one thing of
which he had always been particularly jealous, was his head. He
had always disliked to have it touched. It was the Wild in him, the
fear of hurt and of the trap, that had given rise to the panicky
impulses to avoid contacts. It was the mandate of his instinct that
that head must be free. And now, with the love-master, his
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snuggling was the deliberate act of putting himself into position of
hopeless helplessness. It was an expression of perfect confidence,
of absolute self-surrender, as though he said. I put myself into thy
hands. Work thou thy will with me. One night, not long after the
return, Scott and Matt sat at a game of cribbage preliminary to
going to bed. Fifteen- two, fifteen- four an a pair makes six, Matt
was pegging up, when there was an outcry and sound of snarling
without.
They looked at each other as they started to rise to their feet.
The wolf s nailed somebody, Matt said.
A wild scream of fear and anguish hastened them. Bring a light!
Scott shouted, as he sprang outside.
Matt followed with the lamp, and by its light they saw a man lying
on his back in the snow. His arms were folded, one above the
other, across his face and throat. Thus he was trying to shield
himself from White Fang s teeth. And there was need for it. White
Fang was in a rage, wickedly making the attack on the most
vulnerable spot. From shoulder to wrist of the crossed arms, the
coat-sleeve, blue flannel shirt and undershirt were ripped in rags,
while the arms themselves were terribly slashed and streaming
blood.
All this the two men saw in the first instant. The next instant
Weedon Scott had White Fang by the throat and was dragging him
clear. White Fang struggled and snarled, but made no attempt to
bite, while he quickly quieted down at a sharp word from his
master.
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