a flash,” said Moran. “That’s what I’ll call you—Flash. Come on, Flash, let’s be pals.”
For more than an hour he tried to win the confidence of the lobo pup, rubbing and scratching his neck and head behind the ears where the white fangs could not reach his hand, and talking to him in an even, friendly tone.
Even a very young pup reads the intonations of the human voice sufficiently to distinguish between those men who care for animals and dogs and those who don’t.
The wolf pup felt the first stirrings of the inner conflict—the battling for supremacy between the wild blood and the tame—that would influence his every move through life. It was as if the different elements of his ancestry had established cross-currents in his veins, exerting a strange cross-pull upon each thought and deed.
The wolf and coyote in him revolted at the man scent, but the dog strain responded to the friendly voice and thrilled to the touch of exploring fingers which scratched his neck and ears. He lay passive and made no protest at the touch.
At last he felt Moran’s hand slip slowly around beneath his chin, rubbing his throat and lower jaw. His throat muscles contracted at this new move,
