"You ketch um dog you take um all right," was his last word.
The bottles were delivered, but after two days. "You ketch um dog," were
Beauty Smith's words to Grey Beaver.
White Fang slunk into camp one evening and dropped down with a sigh of
content. The dreaded white god was not there. For days his
manifestations of desire to lay hands on him had been growing more
insistent, and during that time White Fang had been compelled to avoid
the camp. He did not know what evil was threatened by those insistent
hands. He knew only that they did threaten evil of some sort, and that
it was best for him to keep out of their reach.
But scarcely had he lain down when Grey Beaver staggered over to him and
tied a leather thong around his neck. He sat down beside White Fang,
holding the end of the thong in his hand. In the other hand he held a
bottle, which, from time to time, was inverted above his head to the
accompaniment of gurgling noises.
An hour of this passed, when the vibrations of feet in contact with the
ground foreran the one who approached. White Fang heard it first, and he
was bristling with recognition while Grey Beaver still nodded stupidly.
White Fang tried to draw the thong softly out of his master's hand; but
the relaxed fingers closed tightly and Grey Beaver roused himself.
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