1906 white fang jack london - pinkmonke - Pink Monkey

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snuggling was the deliberate act of putting himself into position of
hopeless helplessness. It was an expression of perfect confidence,
of absolute self-surrender, as though he said. ‘I put myself into thy
hands. Work thou thy will with me.’ One night, not long after the
return, Scott and Matt sat at a game of cribbage preliminary to
going to bed. ‘Fifteen- two, fifteen- four an’ a pair makes six,’ Matt
was pegging up, when there was an outcry and sound of snarling
without.
They looked at each other as they started to rise to their feet.
‘The wolf’s nailed somebody,’ Matt said.
A wild scream of fear and anguish hastened them. ‘Bring a light!’
Scott shouted, as he sprang outside.
Matt followed with the lamp, and by its light they saw a man lying
on his back in the snow. His arms were folded, one above the
other, across his face and throat. Thus he was trying to shield
himself from White Fang’s teeth. And there was need for it. White
Fang was in a rage, wickedly making the attack on the most
vulnerable spot. From shoulder to wrist of the crossed arms, the
coat-sleeve, blue flannel shirt and undershirt were ripped in rags,
while the arms themselves were terribly slashed and streaming
blood.
All this the two men saw in the first instant. The next instant
Weedon Scott had White Fang by the throat and was dragging him
clear. White Fang struggled and snarled, but made no attempt to
bite, while he quickly quieted down at a sharp word from his
master.
Matt helped the man to his feet. As he arose he lowered his crossed
arms, exposing the bestial face of Beauty Smith. The dog-musher
let go of him precipitately, with action similar to that of a man who
has picked up live fire. Beauty Smith blinked in the lamplight and
looked about him. He caught sight of White Fang and terror
rushed into his face.
At the same moment Matt noticed two objects lying in the snow.
He held the lamp close to them, indicating them with his toe for his
employer’s benefit- a steel dog-chain and a stout club.
Weedon Scott saw and nodded. Not a word was spoken. The dogmusher
laid his hand on Beauty Smith’s shoulder and faced him to
the right-about. No word needed to be spoken. Beauty Smith
started.
In the meantime the love-master was patting White Fang and
talking to him.
‘Tried to steal you, eh? And you wouldn’t have it! Well, well, he
made a mistake, didn’t he?’ ‘Must ‘a’ thought he had hold of
seventeen devils,’ the dog-musher sniggered.