men had just gone to bed.

"He's gone off his food again," Matt remarked from his bunk.

There was a grunt from Weedon Scott's bunk, and a stir of blankets.

"From the way he cut up the other time you went away, I wouldn't wonder
this time but what he died."

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.

"There she blows!" Matt cried. From the Yukon arose the hoarse bellowing
of a river steamboat. "You've got to cut it short. Be sure and lock the
front door. I'll go out the back. Get a move on!"

The two doors slammed at the same moment, and Weedon Scott waited for
Matt to come around to the front. From inside the door came a low
whining and sobbing. Then there were long, deep-drawn sniffs.

"You must take good care of him, Matt," Scott said, as they started down
the hill. "Write and let me know how he gets along."

"Sure," the dog-musher answered. "But listen to that, will you!"

Both men stopped. White Fang was howling as dogs howl when their masters
lie dead. He was voicing an utter woe, his cry bursting upward in great
heart-breaking rushes, dying d