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 upon him.
"Talk about your rough-houses," Matt murmured gleefully, standing in the
doorway and looking on.
"Give 'm hell, you wolf! Give 'm hell!--an' 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.
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