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Updated: June 9, 2025
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.
The Mill Enders voted late, all of them, so late that Weedon Moore, who kept track of their activities, wondered if they meant to vote at all. But they did vote, they also to the last man, and a rumour crept about that some irregularity was connected with the ballot. But whatever they did, it was by concerted action, after a definite design.
"What!" the dog-musher exploded. "You don't mean to say . . .?" "The very thing I mean. Here's your bandana. I'll write to you about him." Matt paused halfway down the gang-plank. "He'll never stand the climate!" he shouted back. "Unless you clip 'm in warm weather!" The gang-plank was hauled in, and the Aurora swung out from the bank. Weedon Scott waved a last good-bye.
Weedon Moore, in these last days, seemed to be scoring; at least circumstance gave him his own head and he was much in evidence. He spoke a great deal, flamboyantly, on the wrongs suffered by labour, and his own consecration to the holy joy of righting them. He spoke in English wholly, because Andrea, with picturesque misery, had regretted his own inability to interpret.
You saw what an impression the dear girl had made upon me when we were at Weedon; for from the first day I set eyes on her, and heard her sing her delightful song of 'Dark-eyed Maiden of Araby, I felt, and said to Turniquet of ours, that very night, that SHE was the dark-eyed maid of Araby for ME not that she was, you know, for she was born in Shropshire.
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.
Weedon Moore, an agitated figure, meeting Jeff, was so worried and excited by it that he had to cackle his anxiety. "What are they doing?" he said, stopping before Jeff on the pavement. "They've got up some damned thing or other. It's illegal, Blake. I give you my word it's illegal." "What is it?"
"We can't," said Jeff, "any more than oil and water. Or alkali and acid. We'd make a mighty fizz. I'm in it for all I'm worth, Amabel. To bust Weedie and save Addington." "Weedon Moore is saving Addington," said she. "Do you honestly believe that? Think how Addington began.
"Weedon Moore mayor of this town? Why, the cub! We'll duck him, Choate and I." They were climbing the rise to her red brick house, large and beautiful and kindly. It really looked much like Miss Amabel herself, a little unkempt, but generous and belonging to an older time. They went in and Jeffrey, while she took off her bonnet and gloves, stood looking about him in the landscape-papered hall.
"But think of the chickens," objected the judge. "And furthermore," the son went on, "for every chicken he kills, I'll pay you one dollar gold coin of the realm." "But you should penalise father, too," interpose Beth. Her sister seconded her, and a chorus of approval arose from around the table. Judge Scott nodded his head in agreement. "All right." Weedon Scott pondered for a moment.
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