"You have only Weedon's opinion for that," rejoined the Judge. "He merely surmises that there is some strain of dog in White Fang; but as he will tell you himself, he knows nothing about it. As for his appearance—"
He did not finish the sentence. White Fang stood before him, growling fiercely.
"Go away! Lie down, sir!" Judge Scott commanded.
White Fang turned to the love-master's Wife. She screamed with fright as he seized her dress in his teeth and dragged on it till the frail fabric tore away. By this time he had become the centre of interest. He had ceased from his growling and stood, head up, looking into their faces. His throat worked spasmodically, but made no sound, While he struggled with all his body, convulsed with the effort to rid himself of the incommunicable something that strained for utterance.
"I hope he is not going mad," said Weedon's mother. "I told Weedon that I was afraid the warm climate would not agree with an Arctic animal."
"He's trying to speak, I do believe," Beth announced. .
At this moment speech came to White Fang, rushing up in a great burst of barking.
"Something has happened to Weedon," his wife said decisively.
