1906 white fang jack london - pinkmonke - Pink Monkey

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in Weedon Scott’s gray eyes, and he muttered savagely, ‘The
beast!’ In the late spring a great trouble came to White Fang.
Without warning, the love-master disappeared. There had been
warning, but White Fang was unversed in such things and did not
understand the packing of a grip. He remembered afterward that
this packing had preceded the master’s disappearance; but at the
time he suspected nothing. That night he waited for the master to
return. At midnight the chill wind that blew drove him to shelter at
the rear of the cabin. There he drowsed, only half asleep, his ears
keyed for the first sound of the familiar step.
But, at two in the morning, his anxiety drove him out to the cold
front stoop, where he crouched and waited.
But no master came. In the morning the door opened and Matt
stepped outside. White Fang gazed at him wistfully. There was no
common speech by which he might learn what he wanted to know.
The days came and went, but never the master. White Fang, who
had never known sickness, became so sick that Matt was finally
compelled to bring him inside the cabin. Also, in writing to his
employer, Matt devoted a postscript to White Fang.
Weedon Scott, reading the letter down in Circle City, came upon
the following.
‘That dam wolf won’t work. Won’t eat. Ain’t got no spunk left. All
the dogs is licking him. Wants to know what has become of you,
and I don’t know how to tell him. Mebbe he is going to die.’ It was
as Matt had said. White Fang had ceased eating, lost heart, and
allowed every dog of the team to thrash him. In the cabin he lay on
the floor near the stove, without interest in food, in Matt, nor in
life. Matt might talk gently to him or swear at him, it was all the
same; he never did more than turn his dull eyes upon the man,
then drop his head back to its customary position on his forepaws.
And then, one night, Matt, reading to himself with moving lips and
mumbled sounds, was startled by a low whine from White Fang.
He had got upon his feet, his ears cocked toward the door, and he
was listening intently. A moment later, Matt heard a footstep. The
door opened, and Weedon Scott stepped in. The two men shook
hands. Then Scott looked around the room.
‘Where’s the wolf?’ he asked.
Then he discovered him, standing where he had been lying, near to
the stove.
He had not rushed forward after the manner of other dogs. He
stood, watching and waiting.
‘Holy Smoke!’ Matt exclaimed. ‘Look at ‘m wag his tail!’ Weedon
Scott strode half across the room toward him, at the same time
calling him. White Fang came to him, not with a great bound, yet