1906 white fang jack london - pinkmonke - Pink Monkey

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Still the punishment delayed. The god merely held near to his nose
a piece of meat. And about the meat there seemed nothing wrong.
Still White Fang suspected; and though the meat was proffered to
him with short inviting thrusts of the hand, he refused to touch it.
The gods were all-wise, and there was no telling what masterful
treachery lurked behind that apparently harmless piece of meat. In
past experience, especially in dealing with squaws, meat and
punishment had often been disastrously related.
In the end, the god tossed the meat on the snow at White Fang’s
feet. He smelled the meat carefully; but he did not look at it. While
he smelled it he kept his eyes on the god. Nothing happened. He
took the meat into his mouth and swallowed it. Still nothing
happened. The god was actually offering him another piece of
meat. Again he refused to take it from the hand, and again it was
tossed to him. This was repeated a number of times. But there came
a time when the god refused to toss it. He kept it in his hand and
steadfastly proffered it.
The meat was good meat, and White Fang was hungry. Bit by bit,
infinitely cautious, he approached the hand. At last the time came
that he decided to eat the meat from the hand. He never took his
eyes from the god, thrusting his head forward with ears flattened
back and hair involuntary rising and cresting on his neck. Also a
low growl rumbled in his throat as warning that he was not to be
trifled with. He ate the meat, and nothing happened. Piece by
piece, he ate all the meat, and nothing happened. Still the
punishment delayed.
He licked his chops and waited. The god went on talking. In his
voice was kindness- something of which White Fang had no
experience whatever. And within him it aroused feelings which he
had likewise never experienced before.
He was aware of a certain strange satisfaction, as though some
need were being gratified, as though some void in his being were
being filled. Then again came the prod of his instinct and the
warning of past experience. The gods were ever crafty, and they
had unguessed ways of attaining their ends.
Ah, he had thought so! There it came now, the god’s hand, cunning
to hurt, thrusting out at him, descending upon his head. But the
god went on talking. His voice was soft and soothing. In spite of
the menacing hand, the voice inspired confidence. And in spite of
the assuring voice, the hand inspired distrust. White Fang was torn
by conflicting feelings, impulses. It seemed he would fly to pieces,
so terrible was the control he was exerting, holding together by an
unwonted indecision the counter-forces that struggled within him
for mastery.