Brown Wolf and Other Jack London Stories E-Book

Jack London

• Herausgeber: ShadowPOET
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

Brown Wolf and Other Jack London Stories
By Jack London
Publisher: ShadowPOET
BROWN WOLF AND OTHER JACK LONDON STORIES
BROWN WOLF
She had delayed, because of the dew-wet grass, in order to put on her overshoes, and when she emerged from the house found her waiting husband absorbed in the wonder of a bursting almond-bud. She sent a questing glance across the tall grass and in and out among the orchard trees.
"Where's Wolf?" she asked.
"He was here a moment ago." Walt Irvine drew himself away with a jerk from the metaphysics and poetry of the organic miracle of blossom, and surveyed the landscape. "He was running a rabbit the last I saw of him."
"Wolf! Wolf! Here, Wolf!" she called, as they left the clearing and took the trail that led down through the waxen-belled manzanita jungle to the county road.
Irvine thrust between his lips the little finger of each hand and lent to her efforts a shrill whistling.
She covered her ears hastily and made a wry grimace.
"My! for a poet, delicately attuned and all the rest of it, you can make unlovely noises. My eardrums are pierced. You outwhistle——"
"Orpheus."
"I was about to say a street-arab," she concluded severely.
"Poesy does not prevent one from being practical—at least it doesn't prevent me. Mine is no futility of genius that can't sell gems to the magazines."
He assumed a mock extravagance, and went on:
"I am no attic singer, no ballroom warbler. And why? Because I am practical. Mine is no squalor of song that cannot transmute itself, with proper exchange value, into a flower-crowned cottage, a sweet mountain-meadow, a grove of redwoods, an orchard of thirty-seven trees, one long row of blackberries and two short rows of strawberries, to say nothing of a quarter of a mile of gurgling brook."
"Oh, that all your song-transmutations were as successful!" she laughed. "Name one that wasn't."
"Those two beautiful sonnets that you transmuted into the cow that was accounted the worst milker in the township."
"She was beautiful——" he began.
"But she didn't give milk," Madge interrupted.
"But she was beautiful, now, wasn't she?" he insisted.
"And here's where beauty and utility fall out," was her reply. "And there's the Wolf!"

Leseprobe

BrownWolfandOtherJackLondonStories

ByJackLondon

Publisher: ShadowPOET

BROWNWOLFANDOTHERJACKLONDONSTORIES

BROWNWOLF

Shehaddelayed,becauseofthedew-wetgrass,inordertoputonherovershoes, and when she emerged from the house found her waiting husbandabsorbed in the wonder of a bursting almond-bud. She sent a questing glanceacrossthetallgrassandinandoutamongtheorchardtrees.

"Where'sWolf?"sheasked.

"He was here a moment ago." Walt Irvine drew himself away with a jerk fromthe metaphysics and poetry of the organic miracle of blossom, and surveyedthelandscape."HewasrunningarabbitthelastIsawofhim."

"Wolf! Wolf! Here, Wolf!" she called, as they left the clearing and took thetrail that led down through the waxen-belled manzanita jungle to the countyroad.

Irvinethrustbetweenhislipsthelittlefingerofeachhandandlenttohereffortsashrillwhistling.

Shecoveredherearshastilyandmadeawrygrimace.

"My!forapoet,delicatelyattunedandalltherestofit,youcanmakeunlovelynoises.Myeardrumsarepierced.Yououtwhistle——"

"Orpheus."

"Iwasabouttosayastreet-arab,"sheconcludedseverely.

"Poesydoesnotpreventonefrombeingpractical—atleastitdoesn'tpreventme.Mineisnofutilityofgeniusthatcan'tsellgemstothemagazines."

Heassumedamockextravagance,andwenton:

"I am no attic singer, no ballroom warbler. And why? Because I am practical.Mine is no squalor of song that cannot transmute itself, with proper exchangevalue, into a flower-crowned cottage, a sweet mountain-meadow, a grove ofredwoods, an orchard of thirty-seven trees, one long row of blackberries andtwo short rows of strawberries, to say nothing of a quarter of a mile ofgurglingbrook."

"Oh,thatallyoursong-transmutationswereassuccessful!"shelaughed."Nameonethatwasn't."

"Thosetwobeautifulsonnetsthatyoutransmutedintothecowthatwasaccountedtheworstmilkerinthetownship."

"Shewasbeautiful——"hebegan.

"Butshedidn'tgivemilk,"Madgeinterrupted.

"Butshewasbeautiful,now,wasn'tshe?"heinsisted.

"And here's where beauty and utility fall out," was her reply. "And there's theWolf!"

From the thicket-covered hillside came a crashing of underbrush, and then,forty feet above them, on the edge of the sheer wall of rock, appeared a wolf'shead and shoulders. His braced forepaws dislodged a pebble, and with sharp-pricked ears and peering eyes he watched the fall of the pebble till it struck attheir feet. Then he transferred his gaze and with open mouth laughed down atthem.

"You Wolf, you!" and "You blessed Wolf!" the man and woman called out tohim. The ears flattened back and down at the sound, and the head seemed tosnuggleunderthecaressofaninvisiblehand.

Theywatchedhimscramblebackwardintothethicket,thenproceededontheirway. Several minutes later, rounding a turn in the trail where the descent waslessprecipitous,hejoinedtheminthemidstofaminiatureavalancheof

pebbles and loose soil. He was not demonstrative. A pat and a rub around theears from the man, and a more prolonged caressing from the woman, and hewas away down the trail in front of them, gliding effortlessly over the groundintruewolffashion.

Inbuildandcoatandbrushhewasahugetimber-wolf;buttheliewasgiventohiswolf-hoodbyhiscolorandmarking.Therethedogunmistakablyadvertised itself. No wolf was ever colored like him. He was brown, deepbrown,red-brown,anorgyofbrowns.Backandshoulderswereawarmbrownthat paled on the sides and underneath to a yellow that was dingy because ofthe brown that lingered in it. The white of the throat and paws and the spotsovertheeyeswasdirtybecauseofthepersistentandineradicablebrown,whiletheeyesthemselvesweretwintopazes,goldenandbrown.

The man and woman loved the dog very much; perhaps this was because ithad been such a task to win his love. It had been no easy matter when he firstdriftedinmysteriouslyoutofnowheretotheirlittlemountaincottage.Footsore and famished, he had killed a rabbit under their very noses and undertheir very windows, and then crawled away and slept by the spring at the footoftheblackberrybushes.WhenWaltIrvinewentdowntoinspecttheintruder,he was snarled at for his pains, and Madge likewise was snarled at when shewentdowntopresent,asapeace-offering,alargepanofbreadandmilk.

A most unsociable dog he proved to be, resenting all their advances, refusingto let them lay hands on him, menacing them with bared fangs and bristlinghair. Nevertheless he remained, sleeping and resting by the spring, and eatingthe food they gave him after they set it down at a safe distance and retreated.His wretched physical condition explained why he lingered; and when he hadrecuperated,afterseveraldays'sojourn,hedisappeared.

And this would have been the end of him, so far as Irvine and his wife wereconcerned, had not Irvine at that particular time been called away into thenorthern part of the state. Biding along on the train, near to the line betweenCalifornia and Oregon, he chanced to look out of the window and saw hisunsociable guest sliding along the wagon road, brown and wolfish, tired yettireless,dust-coveredandsoiledwithtwohundredmilesoftravel.

Now Irvine was a man of impulse, a poet. He got off the train at the nextstation, bought a piece of meat at a butcher shop, and captured the vagrant onthe outskirts of the town. The return trip was made in the baggage car, and soWolf came a second time to the mountain cottage. Here he was tied up for aweek and made love to by the man and woman. But it was very circumspectlove-making. Remote and alien as a traveller from another planet, he snarleddown their soft-spoken love-words. He never barked. In all the time they hadhimhewasneverknowntobark.

To win him became a problem. Irvine liked problems. He had a metal platemade, on which was stamped: "Return to Walt Irvine, Glen Ellen, SonomaCounty, California." This was riveted to a collar and strapped about the dog'sneck. Then he was turned loose, and promptly He disappeared. A day latercameatelegramfromMendocinoCounty.Intwentyhourshehadmadeoverahundredmilestothenorth,andwasstillgoingwhencaptured.

HecamebackbyWellsFargoExpress,wastiedupthreedays,andwasloosedon the fourth and lost. This time he gained southern Oregon before he wascaught and returned. Always, as soon as he received his liberty, he fled away,and always he fled north. He was possessed of an obsession that drove himnorth. The homing instinct, Irvine called it, after he had expended the sellingpriceofasonnetingettingtheanimalbackfromnorthernOregon.

Another time the brown wanderer succeeded in traversing half the length ofCalifornia, all of Oregon, and most of Washington, before he was picked upand returned "Collect." A remarkable thing was the speed with which hetraveled.Fedupandrested,assoonashewasloosedhedevotedallhisenergyto getting over the ground. On the first day's run he was known to cover ashigh as a hundred and fifty miles, and after that he would average a hundredmiles a day until caught. He always arrived back lean and hungry and savage,andalwaysdepartedfreshandvigorous,cleavinghiswaynorthwardinresponsetosomepromptingofhisbeingthatnoonecouldunderstand.

Butatlast,afterafutileyearofflight,heacceptedtheinevitableandelectedtoremain at the cottage where first he had killed the rabbit and slept by thespring.Evenafterthat,alongtimeelapsedbeforethemanandwomansucceededinpattinghim.Itwasagreatvictory,fortheyalonewereallowedtoput hands on him. He was fastidiously exclusive, and no guest at the cottageever succeeded in making up to him. A low growl greeted such approach; ifany one had the hardihood to come nearer, the lips lifted, the naked fangsappeared, and the growl became a snarl—a snarl so terrible and malignant thatit awed the stoutest of them, as it likewise awed the farmers' dogs that knewordinarydogsnarling,buthadneverseenwolfsnarlingbefore.

He was without antecedents. His history began with Walt and Madge. He hadcome up from the south, but never a clew did they get of the owner fromwhom he had evidently fled. Mrs. Johnson, their nearest neighbor and the onewho supplied them with milk, proclaimed him a Klondike dog. Her brotherwasburrowingforfrozenpay-streaksinthatfarcountry,andsosheconstitutedherselfanauthorityonthesubject.

But they did not dispute her. There were the tips of Wolf's ears, obviously soseverely frozen at some time that they would never quite heal again. Besides,he looked like the photographs of the Alaskan dogs they saw published inmagazinesandnewspapers.Theyoftenspeculatedoverhispast,andtriedto

conjure up (from what they had read and heard) what his northland life hadbeen.Thatthenorthlandstilldrewhim,theyknew;foratnighttheysometimesheardhimcryingsoftly;andwhenthenorthwindblewandthebiteoffrostwasintheair,agreatrestlessnesswouldcomeuponhimandhewouldliftamournfullamentwhichtheyknewtobethelongwolf-howl.Yetheneverbarked.Noprovocationwasgreatenoughtodrawfromhimthatcaninecry.

Long discussion they had, during the time of winning him, as to whose dog hewas.Eachclaimedhim,andeachproclaimedloudlyanyexpressionofaffectionmadebyhim.Butthemanhadthebetterofitatfirst,chieflybecausehe was a man. It was patent that Wolf had had no experience with women. Hedid not understand women. Madge's skirts were something he never quiteaccepted. The swish of them was enough to set him a-bristle with suspicion,andonawindydayshecouldnotapproachhimatall.

On the other hand, it was Madge who fed him; also it was she who ruled thekitchen, and it was by her favor, and her favor alone, that he was permitted tocome within that sacred precinct. It was because of these things that she badefair to overcome the handicap of her garments. Then it was that Walt put forthspecial effort, making it a practice to have Wolf lie at his feet while he wrote,and, between petting and talking, losing much time from his work. Walt wonin the end, and his victory was most probably due to the fact that he was aman, though Madge averred that they would have had another quarter of amile of gurgling brook, and at least two west winds sighing through theirredwoods, had Walt properly devoted his energies to song-transmutation andleftWolfalonetoexerciseanaturaltasteandanunbiasedjudgment.

"It's about time I heard from those triolets," Walt said, after a silence of fiveminutes, during which they had swung steadily down the trail. "There'll be acheckatthepostoffice,Iknow,andwe'lltransmuteitintobeautifulbuckwheat flour, a gallon of maple syrup, and a new pair of overshoes foryou."

"And into beautiful milk from Mrs. Johnson's beautiful cow," Madge added."To-morrow'sthefirstofthemonth,youknow."

Waltscowledunconsciously;thenhisfacebrightened,andheclappedhishandtohisbreastpocket.

"Nevermind.Ihavehereanice,beautiful,newcow,thebestmilkerinCalifornia."

"Whendidyouwriteit?"shedemandedeagerly.Then,reproachfully,"Andyounevershowedittome."

"Isavedittoreadtoyouonthewaytothepostoffice,inaspotremarkablylikethisone,"heanswered,indicating,withawaveofhishand,adrylogon

whichtosit.

A tiny stream flowed out of a dense fern-brake, slipped down a mossy-lippedstone, and ran across the path at their feet. From the valley arose the mellowsong of meadow larks, while about them, in and out, through sunshine andshadow,flutteredgreatyellowbutterflies.

Up from below came another sound that broke in upon Walt reading softlyfrom his manuscript. It was a crunching of heavy feet, punctuated now andagainbytheclatteringofadisplacedstone.AsWaltfinishedandlookedtohiswife for approval, a man came into view around the turn of the trail. He wasbareheaded and sweaty. With a handkerchief in one hand he mopped his face,whileintheotherhandhecarriedanewhatandawiltedstarchedcollarwhichhe had removed from his neck. He was a well-built man, and his musclesseemedonthepointofburstingoutofthepainfullynewandready-madeblackclotheshewore.

"Warmday,"Waltgreetedhim.Waltbelievedincountrydemocracy,andnevermissedanopportunitytopracticeit.

Themanpausedandnodded.

"I guess I ain't used much to the warm," he vouchsafed half apologetically."I'mmoreaccustomedtozeroweather."

"Youdon'tfindanyofthatinthiscountry,"Waltlaughed.

"Should say not," the man answered. "An' I ain't here a-lookin' for it neither.I'm tryin' to find my sister. Mebbe you know where she lives. Her name'sJohnson,Mrs.WilliamJohnson."

"You're not her Klondike brother!" Madge cried, her eyes bright with interest,"aboutwhomwe'veheardsomuch?"

"Yes'm,that'sme,"heansweredmodestly."Myname'sMiller,SkiffMiller.IjustthoughtI'ds'priseher."

"You are on the right track then. Only you've come by the footpath." Madgestood up to direct him, pointing up the canyon a quarter of a mile. "You seethat blasted redwood! Take the little trail turning off to the right. It's the shortcuttoherhouse.Youcan'tmissit."

"Yes'm,thankyou,ma'am,"hesaid.

He made tentative efforts to go, but seemed awkwardly rooted to the spot. Hewasgazingatherwithanopenadmirationofwhichhewasquiteunconscious,and which was drowning, along with him, in the rising sea of embarrassmentinwhichhefloundered.

"We'dliketohearyoutellabouttheKlondike,"Madgesaid."Mayn'twecomeoversomedaywhileyouareatyoursister's!Or,betteryet,won'tyoucome

overandhavedinnerwithus?"

"Yes'm,thankyou,ma'am,"hemumbledmechanically.Thenhecaughthimself up and added: "I ain't stoppin' long. I got to be pullin' north again. I gooutonto-night'strain.Yousee,I'vegotamailcontractwiththegovernment."

When Madge had said that it was too bad, he made another futile effort to go.But he could not take his eyes from her face. He forgot his embarrassment inhisadmiration,anditwasherturntoflushandfeeluncomfortable.

It was at this juncture, when Walt had just decided it was time for him to besaying something to relieve the strain, that Wolf, who had been away nosingthroughthebrush,trottedwolf-likeintoview.

Skiff Miller's abstraction disappeared. The pretty woman before him passedout of his field of vision. He had eyes only for the dog, and a great wondercameintohisface.

"Well,I'llbehanged!"heenunciatedslowlyandsolemnly.

He sat down ponderingly on the log, leaving Madge standing. At the sound ofhis voice, Wolf's ears had flattened down, then his mouth had opened in alaugh. He trotted slowly up to the stranger and first smelled his hands, thenlickedthemwithhistongue.

SkiffMillerpattedthedog'shead,andslowlyandsolemnlyrepeated,"Well,I'llbehanged!"

"Excuseme,ma'am,"hesaidthenextmoment,"Iwasjusts'prisedsome,thatwasall."

"We'resurprised,too,"sheansweredlightly."WeneversawWolfmakeuptoastrangerbefore."

"Isthatwhatyoucallhim—Wolf?"themanasked.

Madgenodded."ButIcan'tunderstandhisfriendlinesstowardyou—unlessit'sbecauseyou'refromtheKlondike.He'saKlondikedog,youknow."

"Yes'm," Miller said absently. He lifted one of Wolf's forelegs and examinedthe footpads, pressing them and denting them with his thumb. "Kind of soft,"heremarked."Heain'tbeenontrailforalongtime."

"Isay,"Waltbrokein,"itisremarkablethewayheletsyouhandlehim."

Skiff Miller arose, no longer awkward with admiration of Madge, and in asharp,businesslikemannerasked,"Howlonghaveyouhadhim?"

But just then the dog, squirming and rubbing against the newcomer's legs,openedhismouthandbarked.Itwasanexplosivebark,briefandjoyous,butabark.

"That'sanewoneonme,"SkiffMillerremarked.

WaltandMadgestaredateachother.Themiraclehadhappened.Wolfhadbarked.

"It'sthefirsttimeheeverbarked,"Madgesaid.

"First time I ever heard him, too," Miller volunteered.Madgesmiledathim.Themanwasevidentlyahumorist.

"Ofcourse,"shesaid,"sinceyouhaveonlyseenhimforfiveminutes."

SkiffMillerlookedathersharply,seekinginherfacetheguileherwordshadledhimtosuspect.

"Ithoughtyouunderstood,"hesaidslowly."Ithoughtyou'dtumbledtoitfromhismakin'uptome.He'smydog.Hisnameain'tWolf.It'sBrown."

"Oh,Walt!"wasMadge'sinstinctivecrytoherhusband.Waltwasonthedefensiveatonce.

"Howdoyouknowhe'syourdog?"hedemanded."Becauseheis,"wasthereply.

"Mereassertion,"Waltsaidsharply.

In his slow and pondering way, Skiff Miller looked at him, then asked, with anodofhisheadtowardMadge:

"How d'you know she's your wife? You just say, 'Because she is,' and I'll sayit's mere assertion. The dog's mine. I bred 'm an' raised 'm, an' I guess I oughttoknow.Lookhere.I'llproveittoyou."

Skiff Miller turned to the dog. "Brown!" His voice rang out sharply, and at thesound the dog's ears flattened down as to a caress. "Gee!" The dog made aswinging turn to the right. "Now mush-on!" And the dog ceased his swingabruptlyandstartedstraightahead,haltingobedientlyatcommand.

"Icandoitwithwhistles,"SkiffMillersaidproudly."Hewasmyleaddog."

"Butyouarenotgoingtotakehimawaywithyou?"Madgeaskedtremulously.

Themannodded.

"BackintothatawfulKlondikeworldofsuffering?"

Henoddedandadded:"Oh,itain'tsobadasallthat.Lookatme.Prettyhealthyspecimen,ain'tI!"

"Butthedogs!Theterriblehardship,theheart-breakingtoil,thestarvation,thefrost!Oh,I'vereadaboutitandIknow."

"Inearlyatehimonce,overonLittleFishRiver,"Millervolunteeredgrimly."IfIhadn'tgotamoosethatdaywasallthatsaved'm."

"I'dhavediedfirst!"Madgecried.

"Thingsisdifferentdownhere,"Millerexplained."Youdon'thavetoeatdogs.You think different just about the time you're all in. You've never been all in,soyoudon'tknowanythingaboutit."

"That's the very point," she argued warmly. "Dogs are not eaten in California.Why not leave him here? He is happy. He'll never want for food—you knowthat.He'llneversufferfromcoldandhardship.Hereallissoftnessandgentleness. Neither the human nor nature is savage. He will never know awhip-lashagain.Andasfortheweather—why,itneversnowshere."

"Butit'sall-firedhotinsummer,beggin'yourpardon,"SkiffMillerlaughed.

"But you do not answer," Madge continued passionately. "What have you toofferhiminthatnorthlandlife?"

"Grub,whenI'vegotit,andthat'smostofthetime,"cametheanswer."Andtherestofthetime?"

"Nogrub."

"Andthework?"

"Yes, plenty of work," Miller blurted out impatiently. "Work without end, an'famine, an' frost, an' all the rest of the miseries—that's what he'll get when hecomes with me. But he likes it. He is used to it. He knows that life. He wasborn to it an' brought up to it. An' you don't know anything about it. You don'tknow what you're talking about. That's where the dog belongs, and that'swherehe'llbehappiest."

"The dog doesn't go," Walt announced in a determined voice. "So there is noneedoffurtherdiscussion."

"What's that?" Skiff Miller demanded, big brows lowering and an obstinateflushofbloodreddeninghisforehead.

"I said the dog doesn't go, and that settles it. I don't believe he's your dog. Youmay have seen him sometime. You may even sometime have driven him forhisowner.ButhisobeyingtheordinarydrivingcommandsoftheAlaskantrailis no demonstration that he is yours. Any dog in Alaska would obey you as heobeyed. Besides, he is undoubtedly a valuable dog, as dogs go in Alaska, andthat is sufficient explanation of your desire to get possession of him. Anyway,you'vegottoproveproperty."

Skiff Miller, cool and collected, the obstinate flush a trifle deeper on hisforehead, his huge muscles bulging under the black cloth of his coat, carefullylookedthepoetupanddownasthoughmeasuringthestrengthofhisslenderness.

TheKlondiker'sfacetookonacontemptuousexpressionashesaidfinally:"I

reckonthere'snothin'insighttopreventmetakin'thedogrightherean'now."

Walt's face reddened, and the striking-muscles of his arms and shouldersseemed to stiffen and grow tense. His wife fluttered apprehensively into thebreach.

"Maybe Mr. Miller is right," she said. "I am afraid that he is. Wolf does seemto know him, and certainly he answers to the name of 'Brown.' He madefriends with him instantly, and you know that's something he never did withanybody before. Besides, look at the way he barked. He was just bursting withjoy.Joyoverwhat?WithoutdoubtatfindingMr.Miller."

Walt'sstriking-musclesrelaxed,andhisshouldersseemedtodroopwithhopelessness.

"I guess you're right, Madge," he said. "Wolf isn't Wolf, but Brown, and hemustbelongtoMr.Miller."

"PerhapsMr.Millerwillsellhim,"shesuggested."Wecanbuyhim."

Skiff Miller shook his head, no longer belligerent, but kindly, quick to begenerousinresponsetogenerousness.

"I had five dogs," he said, casting about for the easiest way to temper hisrefusal. "He was the leader. They was the crack team of Alaska. Nothin' couldtouch 'em. In 1898 I refused five thousand dollars for the bunch. Dogs washigh, then, anyway; but that wasn't what made the fancy price. It was the teamitself. Brown was the best in the team. That winter I refused twelve hundredfor 'm. I didn't sell 'm then, an' I ain't a-sellin' 'm now. Besides, I think amighty lot of that dog. I've been lookin' for 'm for three years. It made me fairsickwhenIfoundhe'dbeenstole—notthevalueofhim,butthe—well,Iliked'mso,that'sall.Icouldn'tbelievemyeyeswhenIseen'mjustnow.IthoughtIwasdreamin'.Itwastoogoodtobetrue.Why,Iwashisnurse.Iput'mtobed,snug every night. His mother died, and I brought 'm up on condensed milk attwo dollars a can when I couldn't afford it in my own coffee. He never knewany mother but me. He used to suck my finger regular, the darn little pup—thatfingerrightthere!"

And Skiff Miller, too overwrought for speech, held up a forefinger for them tosee.

"That very finger," he managed to articulate, as though it somehow clinchedtheproofofownershipandthebondofaffection.

HewasstillgazingathisextendedfingerwhenMadgebegantospeak."Butthedog,"shesaid."Youhaven'tconsideredthedog."

SkiffMillerlookedpuzzled.

"Haveyouthoughtabouthim?"sheasked.

"Don'tknowwhatyou'redrivin'at,"wastheresponse.

"Maybe the dog has some choice in the matter," Madge went on. "Maybe hehas his likes and desires. You have not considered him. You give him nochoice. It has never entered your mind that possibly he might prefer Californiato Alaska. You consider only what you like. You do with him as you wouldwithasackofpotatoesorabaleofhay."

This was a new way of looking at it, and Miller was visibly impressed as hedebateditinhismind.Madgetookadvantageofhisindecision.

"If you really love him, what would be happiness to him would be yourhappinessalso,"sheurged.

Skiff Miller continued to debate with himself, and Madge stole a glance ofexultationtoherhusband,wholookedbackwarmapproval.

"Whatdoyouthink?"theKlondikersuddenlydemanded.

Itwasherturntobepuzzled."Whatdoyoumean?"sheasked."D'yethinkhe'dsoonerstayinCalifornia!"

Shenoddedherheadwithpositiveness."Iamsureofit."

Skiff Miller again debated with himself, though this time aloud, at the sametimerunninghisgazeinajudicialwayoverthemootedanimal.

"He was a good worker. He's done a heap of work for me. He never loafed onme, an' he was a joe-dandy at hammerin' a raw team into shape. He's got ahead on him. He can do everything but talk. He knows what you say to him.Lookat'mnow.Heknowswe'retalkin'abouthim."

The dog was lying at Skiff Miller's feet, head close down on paws, ears erectand listening, and eyes that were quick and eager to follow the sound ofspeechasitfellfromthelipsoffirstoneandthentheother.

"An' there's a lot of work in 'm yet. He's good for years to come. An' I do likehim."

Once or twice after that Skiff Miller opened his mouth and closed it againwithoutspeaking.Finallyhesaid:

"I'll tell you what I'll do. Your remarks, ma'am, has some weight in them. Thedog's worked hard, and maybe he's earned a soft berth an' has got a right tochoose. Anyway, we'll leave it up to him. Whatever he says, goes. You peoplestay right here settin' down. I'll say good-by and walk off casual-like. If hewants to stay, he can stay. If he wants to come with me, let 'm come. I won'tcall'mtocomean'don'tyoucall'mtocomeback."

He looked with sudden suspicion at Madge, and added, "Only you must playfair.Nopersuadin'aftermybackisturned."

"We'llplayfair,"Madgebegan,butSkiffMillerbrokeinonherassurances.

"I know the ways of women," he announced. "Their hearts is soft. When theirhearts is touched they're likely to stack the cards, look at the bottom of thedeck, an' lie—beggin' your pardon, ma'am. I'm only discoursin' about womeningeneral."

"Idon'tknowhowtothankyou,"Madgequavered.

"I don't see as you've got any call to thank me," he replied. "Brown ain'tdecided yet. Now you won't mind if I go away slow! It's no more'n fair, seein'I'llbeoutofsightinsideahundredyards."

Madge agreed, and added, "And I promise you faithfully that we won't doanythingtoinfluencehim."

"Well, then, I might as well he gettin' along," Skiff Miller said in the ordinarytonesofonedeparting.

Atthischangeinhisvoice,Wolfliftedhisheadquickly,andstillmorequicklygot to his feet when the man and woman shook hands. He sprang up on hishind legs, resting his fore paws on her hip and at the same time licking SkiffMiller's hand. When the latter shook hands with Walt, Wolf repeated his act,restinghisweightonWaltandlickingbothmen'shands.

"It ain't no picnic, I can tell you that," were the Klondiker's last words, as heturnedandwentslowlyupthetrail.

For the distance of twenty feet Wolf watched him go, himself all eagernessand expectancy, as though waiting for the man to turn and retrace his steps.Then, with a quick low whine, Wolf sprang after him, overtook him, caughthishandbetweenhisteethwithreluctanttenderness,andstrovegentlytomakehimpause.

Failing in this, Wolf raced back to where Walt Irvine sat, catching his coatsleeveinhisteethandtryingvainlytodraghimaftertheretreatingman.

Wolf'sperturbationbegantowax.Hedesiredubiquity.Hewantedtobeintwoplaces at the same time, with the old master and the new, and steadily thedistance between them was increasing. He sprang about excitedly, makingshort nervous leaps and twists, now toward one, now toward the other, inpainful indecision, not knowing his own mind, desiring both and unable tochoose,utteringquicksharpwhinesandbeginningtopant.

He sat down abruptly on his haunches, thrusting his nose upward, the mouthopening and closing with jerking movements, each time opening wider. Thesejerking movements were in unison with the recurrent spasms that attacked thethroat, each spasm severer and more intense than the preceding one. And inaccord with jerks and spasms the larynx began to vibrate, at first silently,accompaniedbytherushofairexpelledfromthelungs,thensoundingalow,