Before he knew what he was doing,
he had slashed the intruder twice and sprung clear. Baseek was surprised
by the other's temerity and swiftness of attack. He stood, gazing
stupidly across at White Fang, the raw, red shin-bone between them.
Baseek was old, and already he had come to know the increasing valour of
the dogs it had been his wont to bully. Bitter experiences these, which,
perforce, he swallowed, calling upon all his wisdom to cope with them. In
the old days he would have sprung upon White Fang in a fury of righteous
wrath. But now his waning powers would not permit such a course. He
bristled fiercely and looked ominously across the shin-bone at White
Fang. And White Fang, resurrecting quite a deal of the old awe, seemed
to wilt and to shrink in upon himself and grow small, as he cast about in
his mind for a way to beat a retreat not too inglorious.
And right here Baseek erred. Had he contented himself with looking
fierce and ominous, all would have been well. White Fang, on the verge
of retreat, would have retreated, leaving the meat to him. But Baseek
did not wait. He considered the victory already his and stepped forward
to the meat. As he bent his head carelessly to smell it, White Fang
bristled slightly. Even then it was not too late for Baseek to retrieve
the situation.
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