Must
'a' butted clean through it, b'gosh!"
But Weedon Scott was not listening. He was thinking rapidly. The
_Aurora's_ whistle hooted a final announcement of departure. Men were
scurrying down the gang-plank to the shore. Matt loosened the bandana
from his own neck and started to put it around White Fang's. Scott
grasped the dog-musher's hand.
"Good-bye, Matt, old man. About the wolf--you needn't write. You see,
I've . . . !"
"What!" the dog-musher exploded. "You don't mean to say . . .?"
"The very thing I mean. Here's your bandana. I'll write to you about
him."
Matt paused halfway down the gang-plank.
"He'll never stand the climate!" he shouted back. "Unless you clip 'm in
warm weather!"
The gang-plank was hauled in, and the _Aurora_ swung out from the bank.
Weedon Scott waved a last good-bye. Then he turned and bent over White
Fang, standing by his side.
"Now growl, damn you, growl," he said, as he patted the responsive head
and rubbed the flattening ears.
CHAPTER II--THE SOUTHLAND
White Fang landed from the steamer in San Francisco. He was appalled.
Deep in him, below any reasoning process or act of consciousness, he had
associated power with godhead. And never had the white men seemed such
marvellous gods as now, when he trod the slimy pavement of San Francisco.
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