"
The blankets in the other bunk stirred irritably.
"Oh, shut up!" Scott cried out through the darkness. "You nag worse than
a woman."
"I'm agreein' with you," the dog-musher answered, and Weedon Scott was
not quite sure whether or not the other had snickered.
The next day White Fang's anxiety and restlessness were even more
pronounced. He dogged his master's heels whenever he left the cabin, and
haunted the front stoop when he remained inside. Through the open door
he could catch glimpses of the luggage on the floor. The grip had been
joined by two large canvas bags and a box. Matt was rolling the master's
blankets and fur robe inside a small tarpaulin. White Fang whined as he
watched the operation.
Later on two Indians arrived. He watched them closely as they shouldered
the luggage and were led off down the hill by Matt, who carried the
bedding and the grip. But White Fang did not follow them. The master
was still in the cabin. After a time, Matt returned. The master came to
the door and called White Fang inside.
"You poor devil," he said gently, rubbing White Fang's ears and tapping
his spine. "I'm hitting the long trail, old man, where you cannot
follow. Now give me a growl--the last, good, good-bye growl."
But White Fang refused to growl. Instead, and after a wistful, searching
look, he snuggled in, burrowing his head out of sight between the
master's arm and body.
Pages:
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259