CHAPTER XXII
Those who dwelt in the fashionable suburb which nestled under the bluff were far from suspecting the origin of the big gray dog who had lived among them for so many years. It was generally conceded that he sprang from some gentle breed of dogs; from some strain that never barked or snapped. It was inconceivable that he would ever bite.
A new snow had fallen, and the suburbanites looked from their windows upon a familiar scene.
The big gray dog was racing over the winding drives with his peculiar sliding gait. He drew a sled, and the six-year-old boy who rode it was making the air ring with shouted commands. No one who beheld the sight suspected the grim conflict which tore the soul of Flash. How could they know that this was The Season—the running moon of the wolves?
When night fell Flash slipped away and ran for miles over the hardwood hills. The phantom
