own into quavering misery, and bursting
upward again with a rush upon rush of grief.

The _Aurora_ was the first steamboat of the year for the Outside, and her
decks were jammed with prosperous adventurers and broken gold seekers,
all equally as mad to get to the Outside as they had been originally to
get to the Inside. Near the gang-plank, Scott was shaking hands with
Matt, who was preparing to go ashore. But Matt's hand went limp in the
other's grasp as his gaze shot past and remained fixed on something
behind him. Scott turned to see. 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. 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