1906 white fang jack london - pinkmonke - Pink Monkey

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Gray Beaver looked on stolidly while the white man yielded the
whip. He gave no protection. It was no longer his dog. When the
beating was over White Fang was sick. A soft Southland dog
would have died under it, but not he. His school of life had been
sterner, and he was himself of sterner stuff. He had too great
vitality. His clutch on life was too strong. But he was very sick. At
first he was unable to drag himself along, and Beauty Smith had to
wait half an hour on him. And then, blind and reeling, he followed
at Beauty Smith’s heels back to the fort.
But now he was tied with a chain that defied his teeth, and he
strove in vain by lunging, to draw the staple from the timber into
which it was driven. After a few days, sober and bankrupt, Gray
Beaver departed up the Porcupine on his long journey to the
Mackenzie. White Fang remained on the Yukon, the property of a
man more than half mad and all brute. But what is a dog to know
in its consciousness of madness? To White Fang, Beauty Smith was
a veritable, if terrible, god. He was a mad god at best, but White
Fang knew nothing of madness; he knew only that he must submit
to the will of this new master, obey his every whim and fancy.