White Fang: Part 5

The other suspicion was allayed.

As Mit-sah and Kloo-kooch had belonged to Grey Beaver, sharing his food, his fire, and his blankets, so now, at Sierra Vista, belonged to the love-master all the denizens of the house.

Yet White Fang was never effusively affectionate.

But most potent in his education was the cuff of the master’s hand, the censure of the master’s voice.

If not amity, at least neutrality must obtain.

His naked fangs and writhing lips were uniformly efficacious, rarely failing to send a bellowing on-rushing dog back on its haunches.

She was not so amenable to the law as he.

But he did not have it in him to be angry with the love-master, and when that god elected to laugh at him in a good-natured, bantering way, he was nonplussed.

But he did not have it in him to be angry with the love-master, and when that god elected to laugh at him in a good-natured, bantering way, he was nonplussed.

This would always culminate with the master’s arms going around White Fang’s neck and shoulders while the latter crooned and growled his love-song.

“He merely surmises that there is some strain of dog in White Fang; but as he will tell you himself, he knows nothing about it. As for his appearance—”

In San Quentin prison he had proved incorrigible.

It was a case, in the parlance of thieves and police, of “rail-roading.”

The surgeon smiled indulgently. “Of course I understand. He deserves all that can be done for him. He must be nursed as you would nurse a human being, a sick child. And don’t forget what I told you about temperature. I’ll be back at ten o’clock again.”

Down out of the blue it would rush, as it dropped upon him changing itself into the ubiquitous electric car.