It possessed many possibilities, was capable of being
moulded into many different forms. Environment served to model the clay,
to give it a particular form. Thus, had White Fang never come in to the
fires of man, the Wild would have moulded him into a true wolf. But the
gods had given him a different environment, and he was moulded into a dog
that was rather wolfish, but that was a dog and not a wolf.
And so, according to the clay of his nature and the pressure of his
surroundings, his character was being moulded into a certain particular
shape. There was no escaping it. He was becoming more morose, more
uncompanionable, more solitary, more ferocious; while the dogs were
learning more and more that it was better to be at peace with him than at
war, and Grey Beaver was coming to prize him more greatly with the
passage of each day.
White Fang, seeming to sum up strength in all his qualities, nevertheless
suffered from one besetting weakness. He could not stand being laughed
at. The laughter of men was a hateful thing. They might laugh among
themselves about anything they pleased except himself, and he did not
mind. But the moment laughter was turned upon him he would fly into a
most terrible rage. Grave, dignified, sombre, a laugh made him frantic
to ridiculousness. It so outraged him and upset him that for hours he
would behave like a demon.
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