“Never mind, father.
It is good discipline. White Fang will have to learn many things, and it’s just as well that he begins now.
He’ll adjust himself all right.”
The carriage drove on, and still Collie blocked White Fang’s way.
He tried to outrun her by leaving the drive and circling across the lawn but she ran on the inner and smaller circle, and was always there, facing him with her two rows of gleaming teeth.
Back he circled, across the drive to the other lawn, and again she headed him off.
The carriage was bearing the master away.
White Fang caught glimpses of it disappearing amongst the trees.
The situation was desperate.
He essayed another circle.
She followed, running swiftly.
And then, suddenly, he turned upon her.
It was his old fighting trick. Shoulder to shoulder, he struck her squarely. Not only was she overthrown.
So fast had she been running that she rolled along, now on her back, now on her side, as she struggled to stop, clawing gravel with her feet and crying shrilly her hurt pride and indignation.
White Fang did not wait.
The way was clear, and that was all he had wanted.
She took after him, never ceasing her outcry.
It was the straightaway now, and when it came to real running, White Fang could teach her things.
She ran frantically, hysterically, straining to the utmost, advertising the effort she was making with every leap: and all the time White Fang slid smoothly away from her silently, without effort, gliding like a ghost over the ground.
As he rounded the house to the porte-cochere, he came upon the carriage. It had stopped, and the master was alighting.
At this moment, still running at top speed, White Fang became suddenly aware of an attack from the side.
It was a deer-hound rushing upon him.
White Fang tried to face it. But he was going too fast, and the hound was too close.
It struck him on the side; and such was his forward momentum and the unexpectedness of it, White Fang was hurled to the ground and rolled clear over.
He came out of the tangle a spectacle of malignancy, ears flattened back, lips writhing, nose wrinkling, his teeth clipping together as the fangs barely missed the hound’s soft throat.
The master was running up, but was too far away; and it was Collie that saved the hound’s life.
Before White Fang could spring in and deliver the fatal stroke, and just as he was in the act of springing in, Collie arrived.
She had been out-manoeuvred and out-run, to say nothing of her having been unceremoniously tumbled in the gravel, and her arrival was like that of a tornado—made up of offended dignity, justifiable wrath, and instinctive hatred for this marauder from the Wild.
She struck White Fang at right angles in the midst of his spring, and again he was knocked off his feet and rolled over.
The next moment the master arrived, and with one hand held White Fang, while the father called off the dogs.
“I say, this is a pretty warm reception for a poor lone wolf from the Arctic,” the master said, while White Fang calmed down under his caressing hand. “In all his life he’s only been known once to go off his feet, and here he’s been rolled twice in thirty seconds.”
The carriage had driven away, and other strange gods had appeared from out the house.
Some of these stood respectfully at a distance; but two of them, women, perpetrated the hostile act of clutching the master around the neck.
White Fang, however, was beginning to tolerate this act.
No harm seemed to come of it, while the noises the gods made were certainly not threatening.
These gods also made overtures to White Fang, but he warned them off with a snarl, and the master did likewise with word of mouth.
At such times White Fang leaned in close against the master’s legs and received reassuring pats on the head.
The hound, under the command,
“Dick!
Lie down, sir!” had gone up the steps and lain down to one side of the porch, still growling and keeping a sullen watch on the intruder.
Collie had been taken in charge by one of the woman-gods, who held arms around her neck and petted and caressed her; but Collie was very much perplexed and worried, whining and restless, outraged by the permitted presence of this wolf and confident that the gods were making a mistake.
All the gods started up the steps to enter the house.
White Fang followed closely at the master’s heels.
Dick, on the porch, growled, and White Fang, on the steps, bristled and growled back.
“Take Collie inside and leave the two of them to fight it out,” suggested Scott’s father. “After that they’ll be friends.”
“Then White Fang, to show his friendship, will have to be chief mourner at the funeral,” laughed the master.
The elder Scott looked incredulously, first at White Fang, then at Dick, and finally at his son.
“You mean . . .?”
Weedon nodded his head.
“I mean just that.