1906 white fang jack london - pinkmonke - Pink Monkey

CHAPTER SIX.
The Love-master.
131
AS WHITE FANG WATCHED Weedon Scott approach, he bristled
and snarled to advertise that he would not submit to punishment.
Twenty-four hours had passed since he had slashed open the hand
that was now bandaged and held up by a sling to keep the blood
out of it. In the past White Fang had experienced delayed
punishments, and he apprehended that such a one was about to
befall him. How could it be otherwise? He had committed what
was to him sacrilege, sunk his fangs in the holy flesh of a god, and
of a white-skinned superior god at that. In the nature of things, and
of intercourse with gods, something terrible awaited him.
The god sat down several feet away. White Fang could see nothing
dangerous in that. When the gods administered punishment they
stood on their legs. Besides, this god had no club, no whip, no
firearm. And furthermore, he himself was free. No chain nor stick
bound him. He could escape into safety while the god was
scrambling to his feet. In the meantime he would wait and see.
The god remained quiet, made no movement; and White Fang’s
snarl slowly dwindled to a growl that ebbed down in his throat
and ceased. Then the god spoke, and at the first sound of his voice,
the hair rose on White Fang’s neck and the growl rushed up in his
throat. But the god made no hostile movement and went on calmly
talking. For a time White Fang growled in unison with him, a
correspondence of rhythm being established between growl and
voice. But the god talked on interminably. He talked to White Fang
as White Fang had never been talked to before. He talked softly
and soothingly, with a gentleness that somehow, somewhere,
touched White Fang. In spite of himself and all the pricking
warnings of his instinct, White Fang began to have confidence in
this god. He had a feeling of security that was belied by all his
experience with men.
After a long time, the god got up and went into the cabin. White
Fang scanned him apprehensively when he came out. He had
neither whip nor club nor weapon. Nor was his injured hand
behind his back hiding something. He sat down as before, in the
same spot, several feet away. He held out a small piece of meat.
White Fang pricked up his ears and investigated it suspiciously,
managing to look at the same time both at the meat and the god,
alert for any over tact, his body tense and ready to spring away at
the first sign of hostility.