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Updated: June 25, 2025
She remained always between him and the way he wanted to go. "Here, Collie!" called the strange man in the carriage. Weedon Scott laughed. "Never mind, father. It is good discipline. White Fang will have to learn many things, and it's just as well that he begins now. He'll adjust himself all right." The carriage drove on, and still Collie blocked White Fang's way.
First, he was evidently a valuable possession of the master's, and next, he was undemonstrative. White Fang liked to lie at his feet on the wide porch when he read the newspaper, from time to time favouring White Fang with a look or a word untroublesome tokens that he recognised White Fang's presence and existence. But this was only when the master was not around.
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!"
He had scarcely finished his brief description when there came a knock at the door. I answered it. It was Chase and his assistant, whom Kennedy had employed in the affair. "We've found the place on Pell Street that we think is Wu Fang's," they reported excitedly. "It's in number fourteen, as you thought. We've left an operative disguised as a blind beggar to watch the place."
"We'll let him run loose and see what kindness can do for him. And here's a try at it." He walked over to White Fang and began talking to him gently and soothingly. "Better have a club handy," Matt warned. Scott shook his head and went on trying to win White Fang's confidence. White Fang was suspicious. Something was impending.
Cherokee might well have been disembowelled had he not quickly pivoted on his grip and got his body off of White Fang's and at right angles to it. There was no escaping that grip. It was like Fate itself, and as inexorable. Slowly it shifted up along the jugular. All that saved White Fang from death was the loose skin of his neck and the thick fur that covered it.
But most potent in his education was the cuff of the master's hand, the censure of the master's voice. Because of White Fang's very great love, a cuff from the master hurt him far more than any beating Grey Beaver or Beauty Smith had ever given him. They had hurt only the flesh of him; beneath the flesh the spirit had still raged, splendid and invincible.
In neither his father nor his mother was there any weakness, nor in the generations before them. A constitution of iron and the vitality of the Wild were White Fang's inheritance, and he clung to life, the whole of him and every part of him, in spirit and in flesh, with the tenacity that of old belonged to all creatures.
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