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Updated: September 7, 2025
Matt examined him. "Just about all in," he announced; "but he's breathin' all right." Beauty Smith had regained his feet and come over to look at White Fang. "Matt, how much is a good sled-dog worth?" Scott asked. The dog-musher, still on his knees and stooped over White Fang, calculated for a moment. "Three hundred dollars," he answered. "And how much for one that's all chewed up like this one?"
"I'd prefer being taken for a prospector or a dog-musher." "I don't think he looks any more like a professor than you do a doctor," the woman broke in. "Thank you," said Messner. Then, turning to her companion, "By the way, Doctor, what is your name, if I may ask?" "Haythorne, if you'll take my word for it. I gave up cards with civilization." "And Mrs. Haythorne," Messner smiled and bowed.
"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.
"Yes, sir," Beauty Smith snarled. "Look out! He'll bite!" some one shouted, and a guffaw of laughter went up. Scott turned his back on him, and returned to help the dog-musher, who was working over White Fang. Some of the men were already departing; others stood in groups, looking on and talking. Tim Keenan joined one of the groups. "Who's that mug?" he asked. "Weedon Scott," some one answered.
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.
When this thought came to him, he began to hope that he would not be selected; but a man who had made a name as captain of a college football eleven, as a president of an athletic club, as a dog-musher and a stampeder in the Yukon, and, moreover, who possessed such shoulders as he, had no right to avoid the honor. It was thrust upon him and upon a gigantic German, Nick Antonsen.
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