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Updated: May 1, 2025
Scott asked, nudging White Fang with his foot. "Half of that," was the dog-musher's judgment. Scott turned upon Beauty Smith. "Did you hear, Mr. Beast? I'm going to take your dog from you, and I'm going to give you a hundred and fifty for him." He opened his pocket-book and counted out the bills. Beauty Smith put his hands behind his back, refusing to touch the proffered money.
"White man's dogs would have no show against 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.
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 . . . !"
Well, give it to him. We've only just started, and we can't quit at the beginning. It served me right, this time. And look at him!" White Fang, near the corner of the cabin and forty feet away, was snarling with blood-curdling viciousness, not at Scott, but at the dog- musher. "Well, I'll be everlastingly gosh-swoggled!" was the dog-musher's expression of astonishment.
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