Sitting on the deck several feet away
and watching wistfully was White Fang.
The dog-musher swore softly, in awe-stricken accents. Scott could only
look in wonder.
"Did you lock the front door?" Matt demanded. The other nodded, and
asked, "How about the back?"
"You just bet I did," was the fervent reply.
White Fang flattened his ears ingratiatingly, but remained where he was,
making no attempt to approach.
"I'll have to take 'm ashore with me."
Matt made a couple of steps toward White Fang, but the latter slid away
from him. The dog-musher made a rush of it, and White Fang dodged
between the legs of a group of men. Ducking, turning, doubling, he slid
about the deck, eluding the other's efforts to capture him.
But when the love-master spoke, White Fang came to him with prompt
obedience.
"Won't come to the hand that's fed 'm all these months," the dog-musher
muttered resentfully. "And you--you ain't never fed 'm after them first
days of gettin' acquainted. I'm blamed if I can see how he works it out
that you're the boss."
Scott, who had been patting White Fang, suddenly bent closer and pointed
out fresh-made cuts on his muzzle, and a gash between the eyes.
Matt bent over and passed his hand along White Fang's belly.
"We plump forgot the window. He's all cut an' gouged underneath.
Pages:
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261