ainst him," Scott went on. "He'd
kill them on sight. If he didn't bankrupt me with damaged suits, the
authorities would take him away from me and electrocute him."

"He's a downright murderer, I know," was the dog-musher's comment.

Weedon Scott looked at him suspiciously.

"It would never do," he said decisively.

"It would never do!" Matt concurred. "Why you'd have to hire a man
'specially to take care of 'm."

The other suspicion was allayed. He nodded cheerfully. In the silence
that followed, the low, half-sobbing whine was heard at the door and then
the long, questing sniff.

"There's no denyin' he thinks a hell of a lot of you," Matt said.

The other glared at him in sudden wrath. "Damn it all, man! I know my
own mind and what's best!"

"I'm agreein' with you, only . . . "

"Only what?" Scott snapped out.

"Only . . . " the dog-musher began softly, then changed his mind and
betrayed a rising anger of his own. "Well, you needn't get so all-fired
het up about it. Judgin' by your actions one'd think you didn't know
your own mind."

Weedon Scott debated with himself for a while, and then said more gently:
"You are right, Matt. I don't know my own mind, and that's what's the
trouble."

"Why, it would be rank ridiculousness for me to take that dog along," he
broke out after another pause.

"I'm agreein' with you," was Matt's answer, and again his employer was
not quite satisfied with him.

"But how in the name of the great Sardanapolis he knows you're goin' is
what gets me," the dog-musher continued innocently.

"It's beyond me, Matt," Scott answered, with a mournful shake of the
head.

Then came the day when, through the open cabin door, White Fang saw the
fatal grip on the floor and the love-master packing things into it. Also,
there were comings and goings, and the erstwhile placid atmosphere of the
cabin was vexed with strange perturbations and unrest. Here was
indubitable evidence. White Fang had already scented it. He now
reasoned it. His god was preparing for another flight. And since he had
not taken him with him before, so, now, he could look to be left behind.

That night he lifted the long wolf-howl. As he had howled, in his puppy
days, when he fled back from the Wild to the village to find it vanished
and naught but a rubbish-heap to mark the site of Grey Beaver's tepee, so
now he pointed his muzzle to the cold stars and told to them his woe.

Inside the cabin the two