But Weedon Scott did not agree with his father.
"I'll tell you what I'll do," he challenged finally. "I'll lock White Fang in with the chickens all afternoon."
"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 penalize father, too," interposed 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. "And if, at the end of the afternoon, White Fang hasn't harmed a chicken, for every ten minutes of the time he has spent in the yard, you will have to say to him, gravely and with deliberation, just as if you were sitting on the bench and solemnly passing judgment, 'White Fang, you are smarter than I thought.'"
From hidden points of vantage the family watched the performance. But it was a fizzle. Locked in the yard and there deserted by the master, White Fang lay down and went to sleep. Once he got up and walked over to the trough for a drink of water. The chickens he calmly ignored. So far as he was concerned they did not exist. At four o'clock he exe-
