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     Buck did not read  the newspapers, or he  would have  known  that
     trouble  was  brewing  not  alone  for  himself,  but  for  every
     tide-water  dog, strong of muscle and  with warm, long hair, from
     Puget Sound to  San  Diego.  Because men, groping  in the  arctic
     darkness, had  found  a yellow  metal, and  because steamship and
     transportation companies were booming the find, thousands of  men
     were rushing into the Northland.  These men wanted dogs, and  the
     dogs they wanted  were heavy  dogs, with strong muscles  by which
     to  toil  and  furry  coats  to  protect  them  from  the  frost.

     Buck lived  at a big  house in the sun-kissed Santa Clara Valley.
     Judge Miller's place, it was called. It stood back from the road,
     hall-hidden  among the  trees, through  which glimpses  could  he
     caught of the  wide cool verandah that ran around its four sides.
     The house  was  approached  by  gravelled  driveways which  wound
     about  through wide-spreading  lawns  and under  the  interlacing
     boughs of tall poplars.  At  the rear things  were on even a more
     spacious  scale than at  the  front.  There  were great  stables,
     where a dozen grooms  and  boys  held  forth, rows  of  vine-clad
     servants' cottages,  an  endless and orderly array of out-houses,
     long grape arbours, green pastures, orchards,  and berry patches.
     Then there was the pumping plant  for the artesian well,  and the
     big  cement tank  where  Judge Miller's  boys took their  morning
     plunge and kept cool in the hot afternoon.

     And over this great  demesne Buck ruled.   Here  he was  born and
     here he had lived the four years of his life.  It was true, there
     were other  dogs.  There could not but be other dogs on so vast a
     place, but  they did not count.   They came and went, resided  in
     the populous kennels, or lived obscurely  in  the recesses of the
     house  after the fashion of Toots, the Japanese  pug,  or Ysabel,
     the  Mexican hairless strange creatures that rarely put  nose out
     of doors  or set foot to ground.   On the other  hand, there were
     the fox terriers, a score of them  at  least, who  yelped fearful
     promises  at  Toots and Ysabel looking out of the windows at them
     and protected by a legion  of  housemaids armed  with  brooms and
     mops.

     But Buck was neither  house-dog nor kennel-dog.   The whole realm
     was his.  He  plunged into the swimming tank or went hunting with
     the Judge's  sons; he escorted  Mollie  and  Alice,  the  Judge's
     daughters, on long  twilight or early morning rambles ; on wintry
     nights he lay at the Judge's  feet  before  the  roaring  library
     fire;  he carried the Judge's grandsons  on  his  back, or rolled
     them  in the grass,  and  guarded  their  footsteps through  wild
     adventures  down to  the  fountain in the stable  yard,  and even
     beyond,  where the paddocks were, and the berry  patches.   Among
     the terriers he  stalked imperiously, and  Toots  and  Ysabel  he
     utterly ignored, for he was king  - king over all  the  creeping,
     crawling,   flying   things  of   Judge  Miller's  place,  humans
     included.

     His  father,  Elmo,  a  huge  St  Bernard, had  been the  judge's
     inseparable companion and Buck did fair to follow in the  way  of
     his father.  He was not so  large  - he weighed only  one hundred
     and  forty  pounds - for his  mother,  Shep,  had  been a  Scotch
     shepherd  dog.  Nevertheless,  one hundred and forty  pounds,  to
     which  was  added  the  dignity that  comes  of  good  living and
     universal  respect, enabled  him to carry  himself in right royal
     fashion.  During the four years since his puppyhood he had  lived
     the life  of a  sated aristocrat; he had a fine pride in himself,
     was ever a trifle egotistical,  as  country  gentlemen  sometimes
     become because of  their insular  situation.  But  he  had  saved
     himself by not  becoming a mere  pampered house-dog.  Hunting and
     kindred outdoor delights had kept down the  fat and hardened  his
     muscles; and to him, as to the cold-tubbing races,  the  love  of
     water had been a tonic and a health preserver.

     And  this  was the  manner of dog Buck  in the fall of 1897, when
     the Klondike strike dragged  men  from  all the  world  into  the
     frozen North.  But Buck  did  not read the newspapers, and he did
     not  know that Manuel,  one  of  the gardener's  helpers, was  an
     undesirable acquaintance.  Manuel had one besetting sin. He loved
     to  play  Chinese  lottery.   Also, in  his  gambling, he had one
     besetting  weakness  -  faith in a  system  ; and  this  made his
     damnation  certain.   For to play a system requires money,  while
     the wages  of a gardener's helper do not lap  over the needs of a
     wife and numerous progeny.

                     The Judge was at a meeting of the Raisin Growers'
     Association,and the boys were busy  organising an athletic  club,
     on the  memorable  night of  Manuel's  treachery.  No one saw him
     and  Buck go  off through the orchard  on what  Buck imagined was
     merely a  stroll.  And  with the exception of  a solitary man, no
     one saw them arrive  at the little flag station known as  College
     Park.   This man  talked with Manuel, and  money clinked  between
     them.

     'You  might  wrap  up  the  goods   before   you   deliver   'm,'
     the  stranger said gruffly,  and Manuel doubled a piece  of stout
     rope around Buck's neck under the collar.

     'Twist it,  an' you'll  choke 'm  plentee,' said  Manuel, and the
     stranger grunted a ready affirmative.

     Buck had accepted the rope  with quiet  dignity.  To be sure,  it
     was an unwonted performance : but he had  learned to trust in men
     he  knew, and to give  them credit for  a wisdom  that outreached
     his  own.   But  when the  ends of the  rope were placed  in  the
     stranger'shands, he growled  menacingly.  He had merely intimated
     his  displeasure, in his pride believing that to  intimate was to
     command.  But to his surprise the rope tightened around his neck,
     shutting off his breath.  In quick rage he sprang at the man, who
     met him  halfway, grappled  him close  by the  throat, and with a
     deft twist threw  him  over on his back.  Then the rope tightened
     mercilessly,  while Buck struggled  in a fury, his tongue lolling
     out of his  mouth and his great chest panting futilely.  Never in
     all his  life had he been so vilely treated, and never in all his
     life  had  he  been  so  angry.   But  his  strength  ebbed,  his
     eyes glaced, and  he knew  nothing  when  the  train  was flagged
     and the two men threw him into the baggage car.

     

     There  he lay for the  remainder of the weary  night, nursing his
     wrath and wounded pride.  He  could  not  understand what  it all
     meant.  What did they want with him, these strange men?  Why were
     they keeping  him pent up in this narrow  crate!  He did not know
     why,  but he  felt oppressed  by  the vague  sense  of  impending
     calamity.  Several times  during the night he sprang  to his feet
     when the shed door rattled  open, expecting to see the  Judge, or
     the boy at  least.  But each time  it was the bulging face of the
     saloon-keeper that  peered in at  him  by  the sickly light of  a
     tallow candle.  An each  time  the Joyful bark  that  trembled in
     Buck's throat was twisted into a savage growl.

     But  the saloon-keeper  let  him alone,  and in the morning  four
     men entered  and  picked  up  the  crate.   More tormentors, Buck
     decided,  for  they  were   evil-looking  creatures,  ragged  and
     unkempt; and he stormed and raged at them through the bars.  They
     only laughed and  poked sticks at him, which he promptly assailed
     with his teeth till he  realised that  that was what they wanted.
     Whereupon he  lay  down  sullenly  and  allowed the  crate to  be
     lifted into  a waggon.  Then he, and  the crate in  which  he was
     imprisoned,  began a  passage through many hands.  Clerks in  the
     express  office took  charge  of  him ; he  was carried  about in
     another  waggon ; a truck carried  him,  with  an  assortment  of
     boxes and parcels,  upon a ferry steamer; he was trucked off  the
     steamer into a great railway depot,  and finally he was deposited
     in an express car.

     For two days and  nights this  express car was  dragged along  at
     the tail of  shrieking  locomotives;  and for two days and nights
     Buck neither ate nor  drank.  In his  anger he  had met the first
     advances  of the  express  messengers with  growls,  and they had
     retaliated  by  teasing him.   When he flung himself  against the
     bars, quivering  and frothing,  they laughed at  him  and taunted
     him.   They  growled  and  barked  like  detestable  dogs, mewed,
     and  flapped their arms  and crowed.  It was  all very silly,  he
     knew;  but therefore the more  outrage  to his  dignity, and  his
     anger waxed and waxed.  He did not mind the  hunger so  much, but
     the lack of  water  caused  him  severe suffering and fanned  his
     wrath to fever-pitch.   For that matter,  high-strung and  finely
     sensitive, the ill  treatment had flung him  into a  fever, which
     was  fed by the  inflammation of his parched  and  swollen throat
     and tongue.

     He was glad  for one thing: the rope was off  his neck.  That had
     given  them an  unfair advantage; but  now  that it  was  off, he
     would show them.   They would never get another rope  around  his
     neck.   Upon that he was resolved.  For two  days  and  nights he
     neither  ate  nor drank and during  those two days and  nights of
     torment, he  accumulated a  fund  of wrath  that  boded  ill  for
     whoever first fell  foul  of him.   His  eyes  turned  bloodshot,
     and he was metamorphosed  into a  raging  fiend.  So changed  was
     he that the  Judge himself would not have recognised him; and the
     express  messengers breathed  with relief when they  bundled  him
     off the train at Seattle.

     Four  men  gingerly  carried the  crate from  the  waggon into  a
     small, high-walled  backyard.  A stout  man, with a  red  sweater
     that sagged generously at the neck, came out and signed the  book
     for  the  driver.   That was  the  man,  Buck  divined,  the next
     tormentor, and he hurled himself savagely  against the bars.  The
     man  smiled   grimly,  and  brought   a   hatchet   and  a  club.

     'You  ain't  going to  take  him  out  now!'  the  driver  asked.

     'Sure,'  the man  replied, driving the hatchet into the crate for
     a pry.

     There  was  an instantaneous  scattering of the four men who  had
     carried  it in,  and  from safe  perches  on top  the  wall  they
     prepared to watch the performance.

     Buck  rushed at the  splintering wood, sinking his teeth into it,
     surging and wrestling with it.  Wherever  the hatchet fell on the
     outside, he was there on  the  inside, snarling and  growling, as
     furiously  anxious to get  out as  the man in the red sweater was
     calmly intent on getting him out.

     'Now,  you  red-eyed  devil,'  he  said,  when  he  had  made  an
     opening  sufficient  for the passage of Buck's body.  At the same
     time  he dropped the hatchet  and  shifted the  club to his right
     hand.

     And  Buck  was  truly  a  red-eyed  devil,  as  he  drew  himself
     together for  the spring,  hair bristling,  mouth foaming,  a mad
     glitter in his bloodshot  eyes.  Straight at  the man he launched
     his  one  hundred and forty pounds  of  fury, surcharged with the
     pent passion  of two days and nights.  In  mid  air, just as  his
     jaws  were about to  close on  the man, he  received a shock that
     checked  his  body  and  brought   his  teeth  together  with  an
     agonising clip.  He whirled over, fetching the ground on his back
     and side.  He  had never been struck  by a club in  his life, and
     did not understand.   With a snarl that  was part  bark  and more
     scream he  was again on his  feet and launched into the air.  And
     again the  shock  came  and  he  was brought  crushingly  to  the
     ground.   This time  he was  aware that it was  the club, but his
     madness knew no caution.  A dozen  times he charged, and as often
     the club broke the charge and smashed him down.

     After  a particularly  fierce blow,  he  crawled to his feet, too
     dazed to rush.  He staggered limply about, the blood flowing from
     nose and mouth  and ear, his  beaufiful coat sprayed  and flecked
     with bloody slaver.  Then the man advanced and deliberately dealt
     him a  frightful blow on the  nose.  All the pain he had  endured
     was as nothing compared with the exquisite agony of this.  With a
     roar that was almost  lionlike  in  its ferocity, he again hurled
     himself at the man.  But the man, shifting the club from right to
     left, coolly  caught  him  by  the  under  jaw,  at the same time
     wrenching  downward and  backward.   Buck  described  a  complete
     circle  in the  air, and half  of  another,  then crashed  to the
     ground on his head and chest.

     For the last  time  he rushed.  The man struck the shrewd blow he
     had purposely withheld  for so  long,  and  Buck  crumpled up and
     went down, knocked utterly senseless.

     'He's no slouch  at dog-breakin', that's wot I  say,'  one of the
     men on the wall cried enthusiastically.

     'Druther break cayuses  any day, and twice on  Sundays,'  was the
     reply of the driver, as he  climbed on the waggon and started the
     horses.

     Buck's senses came back  to  him, but  not his strength.   He lay
     where he  had  fallen,  and  from there he watched the man in the
     red sweater.

     '"Answers   to  the  name   of  Buck,"'  the  man   soliloquised,
     quoting  from the saloon-keeper's  letter which had announced the
     consignment  of the crate and contents.  'Well, Buck, my boy,' he
     went on in  a  genial voice, 'we've had our  little  ruction, and
     the best thing we can do is to let it go at that.  You've learned
     your  place, and I know mine.  Be a  good dog and all 'll go well
     and the  goose hang  high.   Be a bad  dog,  and I'll  whale  the
     stuffin' outa you. Understand?"

     





     As he spoke  he fearlessly patted  the head he had so mercilessly
     pounded,  and though Buck's hair  involuntarily bristled at touch
     of  the  hand,  he  endured it  without  protest.  When  the  man
     brought him water he drank eagerly,  and  later bolted a generous
     meal   of  raw  meat,  chunk  by  chunk,  from  the  man's  hand.

     He was beaten  (he knew that); but he  was  not broken.   He saw,
     once for all, that he stood no chance against a man  with a club.
     He had learned the lesson,  and in  all his after  life he  never
     forgot  it.  That club was a revelation.  It was his introduction
     to  the  reign  of  primitive law, and  he met  the  introduction
     halfway.  The facts of  life took  on a fiercer aspect; and while
     he faced  that aspect  uncowed, he  faced it with  all the latent
     cunning of his nature aroused.   As the days went by,  other dogs
     came,  in  crates  and at the  ends of ropes, some docilely,  and
     some  raging and roaring as he had  come;  and, one  and  all, he
     watched them  pass under  the  dominion  of the man  in  the  red
     sweater.   Again   and  again,  as  he  looked  at   each  brutal
     performance,  the lesson was  driven home to  Buck: a man with  a
     club  was  a  lawgiver,  a  master  to   be  obeyed,  though  not
     necessarily  conciliated.   Of this  last Buck was  never guilty,
     though  he  did see  beaten dogs  that fawned  upon  the man, and
     wagged their  tails, and licked his hand.  Also  he saw  one dog,
     that  would neither conciliate nor obey,  finally  killed in  the
     struggle for mastery.

     Now  and  again  men  came,  strangers,  who   talked  excitedly,
     wheedlingly,  and in all kinds  of fashions to the man in the red
     sweater.  And at  such  times  that money passed between them the
     strangers  took  one or more of the  dogs away with  them.   Buck
     wondered where  they went, for they never came back; but the fear
     of  the  future  was strong upon him, and  he was glad each  time
     when he was not selected.

     Yet his time came,  in the end, in  the form of a little weazened
     man  who  spat  broken  English  and  many  strange  and  uncouth
     exclamations which Buck could not understand.

     'Sacredam!' he cried, when  his eyes lit upon Buck.  'Dat one dam
     bully dog ! Eh! How moch?'

     'Three  hundred, and  a present at that,' was the prompt reply of
     the man in  the red sweater.  'And  seein' it's government money,
     you ain't got no kick coming; eh, Perrault!'

     Perrault grinned.  Considering  that  the price of  dogs had been
     boomed  skyward by the  unwonted demand, it was not an unfair sum
     for  so fine an  animal.  The  Canadian  Government  would  be no
     loser, nor would its despatches travel the slower.  Perrault knew
     dogs, and  when  he looked  at Buck he knew that he was one  in a
     thousand  -  'One   in  ten  t'ousand,'  he  commented  mentally.

     Buck saw  money pass between  them,  and was  not  surprised when
     Curly, a good-natured Newfoundland, and he were  led away by  the
     little weazened man.  That was the last he saw of the man  in the
     red sweater,  and as Curly and he looked at receding Seattle from
     the  deck of  the  Narwhal,  it was the  last he saw of  the warm
     Southland.   Curly and he were taken below by Perrault and turned
     over  to a black-faced  giant  called François.   Perrault  was a
     French-Canadian,    and   swarthy;    but    François    was    a
     French-Canadian  half-breed, and twice  as swarthy.  They  were a
     new kind of  men to Buck  (of which he was destined to  see  many
     more), and  while he developed no affection for them, he none the
     less grew  honestly to respect  them.   He  speedily learned that
     Perrault  and François  were  fair  men, calm  and  impartial  in
     administering justice,  and too wise in the  way  of  dogs to  be
     ever fooled by dogs.

     In  the 'tween-decks  of the Narwhal, Buck and  Curly joined  two
     other dogs.  One  of  them  was  a  big,  snow-white fellow  from
     Spitzbergen  who had been brought  away by a whaling captain, and
     who had later  accompanied a Geological  Survey into the Barrens.
     He  was friendly, in  a  treacherous sort  of  way, smiling  into
     one's face the  while he meditated  some underhand trick, as, for
     instance,  when he stole from Buck's food  at the first meal.  As
     Buck  sprang to punish  him,  the  lash of  François's whip  sang
     through  the  air,  reaching  the  culprit   first;  and  nothing
     remained to  Buck  but  to recover the bone.  That  was  fair  of
     François, he  decided, and the half-breed began to rise in Buck's
     intimation.

     The  other  dog made no advances, nor received any; also, he  did
     not attempt to steal from the newcomers.  He was a gloomy, morose
     fellow,  and  he showed Curly  plainly that all he desired was to
     be left alone, and further,  that  there  would be trouble if  he
     were not left alone.  'Dave' he was called, and he ate and slept,
     or yawned between  times, and took interest in  nothing, not even
     when the Narwhal crossed Queen  Charlotte Sound  and  rolled  and
     pitched and bucked like  a thing possessed.  'When Buck and Curly
     grew excited,  half  wild with fear, he raised his head as though
     annoyed,  favoured them  with an incurious  glance,  yawned,  and
     went to sleep again.

     Day and  night  the ship throbbed to the tireless  pulse  of  the
     propeller,  and though  one  day  was  very  like another, it was
     apparent  to  Buck that the weather was  steadily growing colder.
     At  last,one  morning, the  propeller  was quiet, and the Narwhal
     was  pervaded  with an atmosphere of excitement.  He felt  it, as
     did  the other  dogs,  and  knew  that  a  change  was  at  hand.
     François  leashed  them and brought them on  deck.  At  the first
     step upon the  cold surface, Buck's feet sank into a  white mushy
     something very like mud.  He sprang back with  a snort.  More  of
     this white stuff was falling through the air.  He shook  himself,
     but more  of it  fell  upon  him.  He sniffed  it curiously, then
     ficked some  up on his tongue.  It bit  like  fire,  and the next
     instant  was gone.   This puzzled him.  He tried  it again,  with
     the same result.  The onlookers laughed uproariously, and he felt
     ashamed,  he  knew  not  why,  for  it   was   his   first  snow.

     



     Buck's first day on the Dyea beach  was like a  nightmare.  Every
     hour was filled with shock  and surprise.  He had  been  suddenly
     jerked  from the  heart of civilisation and flung into  the heart
     of things  primordial.  No  lazy, sun-kissed life was this,  with
     nothing to do but loaf and be bored.  Here was neither peace, nor
     rest, nor  a moment's safety.  All was confusion and action,  and
     every moment  life and  limb were  in peril. There was imperative
     need  to  be constantly  alert; for these  dogs and men were  not
     town dogs and  men.  They were savages, all of them; who knew  no
     law but the law of club and fang.

     He  had  never seen dogs fight as these wolfish creatures fought,
     and his  first experience taught him an unforgettable lesson.  It
     is true, it was a vicarious  experience, else he would  not  have
     lived  to profit by  it.  Curly was the victim.  They were camped
     near the  log  store,  where  she,  in  her  friendly  way,  made
     advances  to  a husky  dog the size of a full-grown  wolf, though
     not half  so large as she.   There was no warning, only a leap in
     like  a flash, a  metallic  clip  of  teeth,  a  leap out equally
     swift,  and  Curly's  face  was  ripped  open  from  eye to  jaw.

     It was  the wolf manner of fighting,  to strike  and leap away  ;
     but there was more to it than  this.  Thirty or forty huskies ran
     to  the  spot  and  surrounded  the  combatants in an  intent and
     silent circle.   Buck did not comprehend that  silent intentness,
     nor the  eager way  with  which  they were  licking  their chops.
     Curly rushed her antagonist, who  struck  again and leaped aside.
     He met her  next rush with his chest, in a  peculiar fashion that
     tumbled  her  off her feet.  She never regained  them.   This was
     what the onlooking  huskies had waited for.  They  closed in upon
     her,  snarling  and yelping, and she  was buried, screaming  with
     agony, beneath the bristling mass of bodies.

     So sudden was it, and so unexpected,  that Buck  was taken aback.
     He saw  Spitz  run out his scarlet  tongue  in  a way  he  had of
     laughing; and he  saw François swinging an  axe,  spring into the
     mess of dogs.   Three men with clubs were helping him to  scatter
     them.  It did not take long. Two minutes from the time Curly went
     down, the last  of her assailants were clubbed  off.  But she lay
     there  limp  and lifeless  in the  bloody, trampled  snow, almost
     literally torn  to pieces, the swart half-breed standing over her
     and  cursing horribly.   The scene  often  came back to  Buck  to
     trouble him in his sleep.   So that  was the way.  No fair  play.
     Once down,  that was the end of  you.  Well, he  would see to  it
     that  he never went down.  Spitz ran out his  tongue and  laughed
     again  and from that moment  Buck hated  him  with  a bitter  and
     deathless hatred.

     Before he  had  recovered  from the  shock caused by  the  tragic
     passing  of Curly,  he received another shock. François  fastened
     upon him an arrangement of straps and buckles.  It was a harness,
     such as he had seen tho grooms put on the horses at home.  And as
     he had seen horses work, so he  was set to work, hauling François
     on  a  sled to the forest that fringed  the valley, and returning
     with a load of firewood.  Though  his dignity was sorely hurt  by
     thus being made  a draught animal, he was  too wise to rebel.  He
     buckled down with a will and did his best, though it was all  new
     and strange.  François  was  stern,  demanding instant obedience;
     and  by  virtue of his whip  receiving instant  obedience;  while
     Dave, who  was an experienced wheeler, nipped Buck's hindquarters
     whenever  he was  in  error.   Spitz  was  the  leader,  likewise
     experienced,  and  while  he  could not always get  at  Buck,  he
     growled  sharp reproof  now and again,  or  cunningly  threw  his
     weight  in tho  traces to  jerk Buck into  the way  he should go.
     Buck  learned  early, and  under the combined tuition of  his two
     mates  and  François made  remarkable progress.  They returned to
     camp he knew enough  to stop  at 'ho', to go ahead  at 'mush', to
     swing  wide on the  bends;  and to keep clear of the wheeler when
     the loaded sled shot downhill at their heels.

     'T'ree vair' good  dogs,' François  told  Perrault.   'Dat  Buck,
     heem   pool  lak  hell,  I  tich  heem  queek  as  anyt'ing.'  By
     afternoon, Perrault, who was in a  hurry to be on the trail  with
     his despatches, returned with two more dogs.  'Billee' and  'Joe'
     he called them, two brothers, and true huskies both.  Sons of the
     one mother though they  were,  they were as  different as day and
     night.  Billee's one  fault was his  excessive good nature, while
     Joe  was  the  very  opposite,  sour  and  introspective, with  a
     perpetual  snarl  and a malignant  eye.   Buck received  them  in
     comradely fashion.   Dave ignored them ; while Spitz proceeded to
     thrash first one and  then  the other.   Billee  wagged  his tail
     appeasingly, turned to run when  he  saw that appeasement was  of
     no avail, and cried  (still appeasingly) when Spitz's sharp teeth
     scored his  flank.  But  no matter how Spitz circled, Joe whirled
     around on his heels to face him, mane bristling, ears  laid back,
     lips writhing and snarling, jaws clipping  together as fast as he
     could snap, and  eyes diabolically  gleaming - the incarnation of
     belligerent  fear.  So terrible was his appearance that Spitz was
     forced  to   forego  disciplining  him;  but  to  cover  his  own
     discomfiture  he turned upon the inoffensive  and wailing  Billee
     and drove him to the confines of the camp.

     By  evening Perrault secured another dog,  an old husky, long and
     lean and  gaunt,  with a  battle-scarred  face  and a single  eye
     which flashed a warning  of  prowess  that commanded respect.  He
     was called Sol-leks, which  means the  Angry Oue.   Like Dave, he
     asked  nothing,  gave nothing,  expected  nothing;  and  when  he
     marched slowly  and  deliberately  into  their midst, even  Spitz
     left  him alone.  He had one peculiarity which  Buck was  unlucky
     enough  to discover.  He  did  not like  to be approached  on his
     blind side.  Of this offence Buck was unwittingly guilty, and the
     first knowledge he  had  of his  indiscretion  was when  Sol-leks
     whirled upon him and slashed his shoulder to  the  bone for three
     inches up and down.   Forever after Buck  avoided his blind side,
     and to the last of  their comradeship had no  more trouble.   His
     only apparent ambition,  like  Dave's,  was  to  be  left  alone;
     though,  as Buck was afterward  to learn, each  of them possessed
     one other and even more vital ambition.

     That night  Buck faced  the great problem of sleeping.  The tent,
     illumined  by a candle, glowed  warmly in  the midst of the white
     plain;  and when  he,  as a  matter of course,  entered it,  both
     Perrault  and François  bombarded  him with  curses  and  cooking
     utensils   till   he   recovered   from  his   consternation  and
     fled ignominiously into the outer cold. A chill  wind was blowing
     that nipped  him sharply and bit  with especial  venom  into  his
     wounded  shoulder.   He  lay  down on  the snow  and attempted to
     sleep,  but  the frost soon  drove him  shivering  to  his  feet.
     Miserable  and  disconsolate, he  wandered  about among the  many
     tents, only to find that one place was as cold as another.   Here
     and there  savage dogs  rushed  upon  him,  but  he bristled  his
     neck-hair  and snarled  (for he was learning fast),  and they let
     him go his way unmolested.

     Finally  an idea came to  him.   He would return  and see how his
     own  team-mates were making  out.   To his astonishment, they had
     disappeared.   Again  he  wandered  about through the great camp,
     looking for them, and again he returned.  Were they in the  tent!
     No, that could  not be, else  he would not havo  been driven out.
     Then  where  could  they  possibly be!  With  dropping  tail  and
     shivering  body,  very forlorn indeed, he  aimlessly circled  the
     tent.  Suddenly the  snow gave  way beneath his  fore legs and he
     sank down.  Something wriggled  under his  feet.  He sprang back,
     bristling and snarling, fearful of the unseen and unknown.  But a
     friendly  little  yelp  reassured  him,  and  he  went   back  to
     investigate.  A whiff of warm air  ascended  to his nostrils, and
     there, curled  up under the  snow in a snug ball, lay Billee.  He
     whined  placatingly, squirmed and  wriggled to show his good will
     and  intention, and even  ventured, as a bribe for peace, to lick
     Buck's face with his warm wet tongue.