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Updated: May 4, 2025
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.
Yet he continued to fear, and he stood on guard, expectant of unguessed evil, alternately suffering and enjoying as one feeling or the other came uppermost and swayed him. "Well, I'll be gosh-swoggled!" So spoke Matt, coming out of the cabin, his sleeves rolled up, a pan of dirty dish-water in his hands, arrested in the act of emptying the pan by the sight of Weedon Scott patting White Fang.
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