1906 white fang jack london - pinkmonke - Pink Monkey

154
But most potent in his education were the cuff of the master’s
hand, the censure of the master’s voice. Because of White Fang’s
very great love, a cuff from the master hurt him far more than any
beating Gray Beaver or Beauty Smith had ever given him. They
had hurt only the flesh of him; beneath the flesh the spirit had still
raged, splendid and invincible. But with the master the cuff was
always too light to hurt the flesh. Yet it went deeper. It was an
expression of the master’s disapproval, and White Fang’s spirit
wilted under it.
In point of fact, the cuff was rarely administered. The master’s
voice was sufficient. By it White Fang knew whether he did right
or not. By it he trimmed his conduct and adjusted his actions. It
was the compass by which he steered and learned to chart the
manners of a new land and life.
In the Northland, the only domesticated animal was the dog. All
other animals lived in the Wild, and were, when not too
formidable, lawful spoil for any dogs. All his days White Fang had
foraged among the live things for food. It did not enter his head
that in the Southland it was otherwise. But this he was to learn
early in his residence in Santa Clara Valley. Sauntering around the
corner of the house in the early morning, he came upon a chicken
that had escaped from the chicken-yard. White Fang’s natural
impulse was to eat it. A couple of bounds, a flash of teeth and a
frightened squawk, and he had scooped in the adventurous fowl. It
was farm-bred and fat and tender; and White Fang licked his chops
and decided that such fare was good.
Later in the day, he chanced upon another stray chicken near the
stables. One of the grooms ran to the rescue. He did not know
White Fang’s breed, so for weapon he took a light buggy-whip. At
the first cut of the whip, White Fang left the chicken for the man. A
club might have stopped White Fang, but not a whip.
Silently, without flinching, he took a second cut in his forward
rush, and as he leaped for the throat the groom cried out, ‘My
God!’ and staggered backward. He dropped the whip and shielded
his throat with his arms. In consequence, his forearm was ripped
open to the bone.
The man was badly frightened. It was not so much White Fang’s
ferocity as it was his silence that unnerved the groom. Still
protecting his throat and face with his torn and bleeding arm, he
tried to retreat to the barn. And it would have gone hard with him
had not Collie appeared on the scene. As she had saved Dick’s life,
she now saved the groom’s. She rushed upon White Fang in
frenzied wrath. She had been right. She had known better than the