"Well, don't be a miser with what you know," Scott said sharply, after waiting a suitable length of time. "Spit it out. What is it?"
The dog-musher indicated White Fang with a backward thrust of his thumb.
"Wolf or dog, it's all the same—he's ben tamed a'ready."
"No!"
"I tell you yes, an' broke to harness. Look close there. D'ye see them marks across the chest?"
"You're right, Matt. He was a sled-dog before Beauty Smith got hold of him."
"An' there's not much reason against his bein' a sled-dog again."
"What d'ye think?" Scott queried eagerly. Then the hope died down as he added, shaking his head, "We've had him two weeks now, and if anything, he's wilder than ever at the present moment."
"Give 'm a chance," Matt counselled. "Turn 'In loose for a spell."
The other looked at him incredulously.
"Yes," Matt went on, "I know you've tried to, but you didn't take a club."
"You try it then."
The dog-musher secured a club and went over to the chained animal. White Fang watched the club after the manner of a caged lion watching the whip of its trainer.
