Its emptiness, and the hunger gnawed and gnawed unceasingly.

White Fang was in the process of finding himself. In spite of the

maturity of his years and of the savage rigidity of the mould that had

formed him, his nature was undergoing an expansion. There was a

burgeoning within him of strange feelings and unwonted impulses. His old

code of conduct was changing. In the past he had liked comfort and

surcease from pain, disliked discomfort and pain, and he had adjusted his

actions accordingly. But now it was different. Because of this new

feeling within him, he ofttimes elected discomfort and pain for the sake

of his god. Thus, in the early morning, instead of roaming and foraging,

or lying in a sheltered nook, he would wait for hours on the cheerless

cabin-stoop for a sight of the god's face. At night, when the god

returned home, White Fang would leave the warm sleeping-place he had

burrowed in the snow in order to receive the friendly snap of fingers and

the word of greeting. Meat, even meat itself, he would forego to be with

his god, to receive a caress from him or to accompany him down into the

town.

_Like_ had been replaced by _love_. And love was the plummet dropped

down into the deeps of him where like had never gone. And responsive out

of his deeps had come the new thing--love. That which was given unto him

did he return. This was a god indeed, a love-god, a warm and radiant

god, in whose light White Fang's nature expanded as a flower expands

under the sun.

But White Fang was not demonstrative. He was too old, too firmly

moulded, to become adept at expressing himself in new ways. He was too

self-possessed, too strongly poised in his own isolation. Too long had

he cultivated reticence, aloofness, and moroseness. He had never barked

in his life, and he could not now learn to bark a welcome when his god

approached. He was never in the way, never extravagant nor foolish in

the expression of his love. He never ran to meet his god. He waited at

a distance; but he always waited, was always there. His love partook of

the nature of worship, dumb, inarticulate, a silent adoration. Only by

the steady regard of his eyes did he express his love, and by the

unceasing following with his eyes of his god's every movement. Also, at

times, when his god looked at him and spoke to him, he betrayed an

awkward self-consciousness, caused by the struggle of his love to express

itself and his physical inability to express it.

He learned to adjust himself in many ways to his new mode of life. It

was borne in upon him that he must let his master's dogs alone. Yet his

dominant nature asserted itself, and he had first to thrash them into an

acknowledgment of his superiority and leadership. This accomplished, he

had little trouble with them. They gave trail to him when he came and

went or walked among them, and when he asserted his will they obeyed.

In the same way, he came to tolerate Matt--as a possession of his master.

His master rarely fed him. Matt did that, it was his business; yet White

Fang divined that it was his master's food he ate and that it was his

master who thus fed him vicariously. Matt it was who tried to put him

into the harness and make him haul sled with the other dogs. But Matt

failed. It was not until Weedon Scott put the harness on White Fang and

worked him, that he understood. He took it as his master's will that

Matt should drive him and work him just as he drove and worked his

master's other dogs.

Different from the Mackenzie toboggans were the Klondike sleds with

runners under them. And different was the method of driving the dogs.

There was no fan-formation of the team. The dogs worked in single file,

one behind another, hauling on double traces. And here, in the Klondike,

the leader was indeed the leader. The wisest as well as strongest dog

was the leader, and the team obeyed him and feared him. That White Fang

should quickly gain this post was inevitable. He could not be satisfied

with less, as Matt learned after much inconvenience and trouble. White

Fang picked out the post for himself, and Matt backed his judgment with

strong language after the experiment had been tried. But, though he

worked in the sled in the day, White Fang did not forego the guarding of

his master's property in the night. Thus he was on duty all the time,

ever vigilant and faithful, the most valuable of all the dogs.

"Makin' free to spit out what's in me," Matt said one day, "I beg to

state that you was a wise guy all right when you paid the price you did

for that dog. You clean swindled Beauty Smith on top of pushin' his face

in with your fist."

A recrudescence of anger glinted in Weedon Scott's grey eyes, and he

muttered savagely, "The beast!"

In the late spring a great trouble came to White Fang. Without warning,

the love-master disappeared. There had been warning, but White Fang was

unversed in such things and did not understand the packing of a grip. He

remembered afterwards that his packing had preceded the master's

disappearance; but at the time he suspected nothing. That night he

waited for the master to return. At midnight the chill wind that blew

drove him to shelter at the rear of the cabin. There he drowsed, only

half asleep, his ears keyed for the first sound of the familiar step.

But, at two in the morning, his anxiety drove him out to the cold front

stoop, where he crouched, and waited.

But no master came. In the morning the door opened and Matt stepped

outside. White Fang gazed at him wistfully. There was no common speech

by which he might learn what he wanted to know. The days came and went,

but never the master. White Fang, who had never known sickness in his

life, became sick. He became very sick, so sick that Matt was finally

compelled to bring him inside the cabin. Also, in writing to his

employer, Matt devoted a postscript to White Fang.

Weedon Scott reading the letter down in Circle City, came upon the

following:

"That dam wolf won't work. Won't eat. Aint got no spunk left. All the

dogs is licking him. Wants to know what has become of you, and I don't

know how to tell him. Mebbe he is going to die."

It was as Matt had said. White Fang had ceased eating, lost heart, and

allowed every dog of the team to thrash him. In the cabin he lay on the

floor near the stove, without interest in food, in Matt, nor in life.

Matt might talk gently to him or swear at him, it was all the same; he

never did more than turn his dull eyes upon the man, then drop his head

back to its customary position on his fore-paws.

And then, one night, Matt, reading to himself with moving lips and

mumbled sounds, was startled by a low whine from White Fang. He had got

upon his feet, his ears cocked towards the door, and he was listening

intently. A moment later, Matt heard a footstep. The door opened, and

Weedon Scott stepped in. The two men shook hands. Then Scott looked

around the room.

"Where's the wolf?" he asked.

Then he discovered him, standing where he had been lying, near to the

stove. He had not rushed forward after the manner of other dogs. He

stood, watching and waiting.

"Holy smoke!" Matt exclaimed. "Look at 'm wag his tail!"

Weedon Scott strode half across the room toward him, at the same time

calling him. White Fang came to him, not with a great bound, yet

quickly. He was awakened from self-consciousness, but as he drew near,

his eyes took on a strange expression. Something, an incommunicable