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    The Call of the Wild and White Fang
    The Call of the Wild and White Fang
    The Call of the Wild and White Fang
    Ebook413 pages6 hours

    The Call of the Wild and White Fang

    By Jack London

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    American author, journalist, and social activist Jack London is best known for his stories set during the Klondike gold rush. Drawing upon his own personal experiences in the Klondike, London’s stories are embodied with a realism indicative of that experience. This volume brings together two of his most famous novellas, “The Call of the Wild” and “White Fang”. “The Call of the Wild” follows the struggle of Buck, a domesticated dog, who is snatched from a pastoral ranch in California and is sold into a brutal life as a sled dog in the Yukon. “White Fang”, described as a mirror to “The Call of the Wild”, conversely details a wild wolfdog’s journey to domestication. By telling these stories through the viewpoint of the animals London explores the struggle of humankind between its wild nature and the demands of civilization. “The Call of the Wild” and “White Fang” are two of the finest examples of London’s literary talent and exhibit why he would become one of the most popular writers of his day. This edition is illustrated by Philip R. Goodwin and Charles Livingston Bull. This edition includes a biographical afterword.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDigireads.com Publishing
    Release dateSep 21, 2020
    ISBN9781420977165
    The Call of the Wild and White Fang
    Author

    Jack London

    Jack London (1876-1916) was an American writer who produced two hundred short stories, more than four hundred nonfiction pieces, twenty novels, and three full-length plays in less than two decades. His best-known works include The Call of the Wild, The Sea Wolf, and White Fang.

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    Reviews for The Call of the Wild and White Fang

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    • 5/5
      This is a beautiful cloth-bound copy of The Call of the Wild and White Fang. I received a copy of this book from Goodreads Giveaways. I love it! It is even nicer than it looks online, and the paper even feels nice and "fancy". These are two of favorite stories, and I love that they are included in one volume.
    • 4/5
      This contains both The Call Of The Wild and its FOIL, White Fang. It's a good value if you want to read both classics, although the former is a stronger piece than the later. The Call Of The Wild is a touted classic for a reason and explores the journey of a domestic dog (from it's prospective) into, well, the wild. White Fang as noted is the inverse following a wolf-dogs journey into becoming mans best friend. They are must reads and excellent. The later is somewhat less impressive as White Fang is quite repetitive which can be dull and bothersome, especially when accompanying such as masterpiece as The Call Of The Wild. The former is a solid 4 star piece, the later 3 stars, but half stars aren't a thing here. I would recommend The Call Of The Wild to anyone interested in classical literature or animal-centric books. I would only recommend White Fang to those interested in more from London and have already read the former first. Thankfully this combination book allows for the freedom to read both if one desires, and cheaply.
    • 5/5
      London has given us a story of raw nature and humanity. With Darwin's evolution in mind, London sends us on two journeys that is as savage as it is beautiful, chaotic as it is poetic as we follow on the trail of a dog in "Call of the Wild" and a hybrid wolf-dog in "White Fang" in the the Klondike Gold Rush that occurred in the Yukon, north-western Canada between 1896 and 1899.

      London's storytelling is vivid as he captures the primal, violent, self-preserving thoughts of his bestial protagonists, even amidst human cruelty, violence, and compassion. London seems to capture in these two stories, beasts that roam free and wild, without fetters and shadows humanity as it really is whether or not we believe in evolution or in God.

      This specific edition of Call and the Wild and White Fang is an excellent edition due to its introduction of the author, Jack London, whose life is not only very interesting but illuminates the reading of his two novels to a greater level of appreciation.
    • 3/5
      A black beauty in dog form. ?
      Buck is a dog that was sold from his serene California home to become a sled dog. After insurmountable odds and countless tragedies, Buck finally learns to become one with his wild side in Call of the Wild.
      White Fang takes us on a journey with the half sled dog half wolf dog pup who shares the same name as the book. After being sold in order to save an Indian village he becomes a fighting dog who is later saved by a kindly Sheriff that teaches him to trust man again.
      I think Jack London's books are popular as classics and have stood the test of time simply because of the tremendous roller coaster ride that each one takes you through. The books are skillfully written and easy to follow the heart-wrenching downfalls and short bursts of happiness as London takes you through his stories of the wild dog. London is also very skilled at making the human the villain and showing just how cruel we can be to our animal brethren.
      I enjoyed these books but like I said it's a roller coaster ride. It's just tragedy after tragedy and doesn't seem to lift you up very high after the tragedies until the very end when the dogs are finally liberated. I would definitely recommend these books to anyone who likes animals or enjoys classics.
    • 4/5
      Brilliant. No wonder these are regarded as classics. As the synopsis suggests, reading the two novella together is a good idea. These reminded me of Black Beauty in style, yet London captures the harshness of the Northland and its people with the ever-present "Wild" that sets these two works apart.
    • 5/5


      Took forever for me to have time to finish all of this but we loved it. The descriptiveness and clarity used had an entrancing effect on me as stories of my childhood. I loved it. My daughter (10) also kept asking for more every night.
    • 5/5
      Excellently written. I skipped the dog-fighting part - not too keen on that-but nevertheless a great read.
    • 5/5
      I read White Fang two years ago for school and don't remember much about it, but Call of The Wild I just finished. It's interesting how you can make a dog a well-rounded character. I like Buck because he progresses and changes throughout the story. He starts out well cared for and is stolen by a man in a red sweater who beats him with a club. He learns "The Law of Club and Fang" which is kind of a dog-eat-dog philosophy. He becomes more powerful, wild, and aggressive. He learns what love is when John Thorton saves his life.
    • 4/5
      "The Call of the Wild" is a short novel about Buck, a St. Bernard/Scotch Shepherd mix who is taken from his comfortable California home during the fever of the Klondike gold rush, and pressed into duty as a sled team dog. He is passed on to a succession of masters, quickly shedding his soft civilized shell and becoming lean, hard and resourceful. Eventually the death of his final master at the hands of the Yeehat Indian tribe leads to Buck's freedom and an opportunity to join the wolf pack that runs through the forest. The book is a short masterpiece of occasionally lyrical beauty.

      "White Fang" is a more substantial work that in some ways reverses the theme of "The Call of the Wild", as we see the progression of White Fang, a wolf/dog born in the wild who follows his mother as she returns to the Yeehat tribe she left during a famine some years back. White Fang learns the ways of these gods who are now his masters, until he is sold to a cruel white human who makes him a sport-fighting dog and brutalizes him until he is a merciless hate-filled demon of a dog. When a kind human liberates him from his torment, it is an open question if, and to what degree, White Fang can join the society of man and canine. I actually enjoyed this more than London's more famous work. It was also surprising to me that a pair of books written over a century ago could show such enlightened attitudes about human society and animal treatment.
    • 5/5
      Both are the kind of childhood favorites you hold for years and pass on to the next generation.
      The musing thing is the domestic dog turns wild and the wild dog happily accepts domesticity.
    • 3/5
      White Fang - Opposite story of Call of the Wild, this time we follow the lives of a wolf pack leading to the birth of half wolf White Fang. WF integration into the human world shows us a different view of our species through the eyes of another. In the end WF is tamed and accepts all of our world.
    • 5/5
      I came to these books having read John Krakauer's Into the Wild, the story of Chris McCandless. Chris had read these book that inspired him to go on his epic adventure to Alaska that led to his death.

      Being Highly interested in that story I was compelled to read these two stories.

      I have read The Call of the Wild and am 2 chapters into White Fang. I really did love the former and I can see why it was the inspiration of McCandless. Following the story from the view point of Buck, the cross-breed house dog who was kidknapped to the hard wilds of the Northlands was written fantastically and in a believeble manner. Great story and portrayal of the relationship between man and dog.

      Highly recommend this book, and I look forward to completing White Fang
    • 4/5
      Two stories with a very similar idea to them. In one case a wolf-dog becomes the fiercest fighter and leader of a pack of wolves, then is forced to fight to the death with other dogs, and finally discovers love with a gentle man; in the second, a domesticated though rather large dog goes the opposite route, from a settled home in California to the Alaskan wilderness, becomes fierce to survive, and only at the end rediscovers the joys of human warmth and comfort.

      Both stories are excellently written - and were far more enjoyable than I had hoped they would be.
    • 3/5
      Two counterpoint stories of a dog gone wild and a wild gone dog. Both unfortunately suffer from the same flaws which are at times mitagated by some decent moving prose, but mostly it just drags.

      Call of the wild:
      Buck is a hefty mogrel, dognapped out of a Californian comfy life to help power the late 1800s goldrush as a sled dog. Despite being a domesticated dog for 10000 years or so Jack London imparts him (and no others) with the instincts of a wolf, an some very unbelivable 'yearning' to 'go back to nature' which is just victorian melodrama of the worst anthromorphisation. Apparently his large dog build gives him a competitivie advantage over evolution's million years of perfecting a wolf.

      White fang is almost as bad, White fang being a wolf quarter dog hybrid (already pretty improbable) suddenly decides for no explained reason other than 'racial memory' which doesn't exist that humans are automatically good. I have no issues with a wolf being tamed, all animals can be tamed, but it's a specific process not a genetic compulsion. And he reverts from a wild creature to a sled dog over the course of a slightly longer novel.

      Interspersed with these annoying inaccuracies are tediously long descriptions sometimes of the dogs mental states, followed byt he disclaimer that they aren't feeling as a human would. It's all just annoying. There are pages of and pages of dog fights too, slash turn run away shoulder barge slash. etc.

      The good bits in both stories are the occasionally moving portrayals of how the dogs interact with man. Probably best read if you don't own a dog, but do kind of like them.
    • 5/5
      This probably will be one of my all time fave of animal books. Makes me think whether Jack himself was a reincarnation of a wolf himself, becoz his description is so damn real.

      The setting is around the end of the 19th century. The Call of the Wild tells about Buck, a normal house-bred dog who was kidnapped and brought to Alaska to be a sled dog. There he has to face a brutal and merciless world with its “law of club and fang”. The description on how he was decivilized, until finally he answers "The Call of the Wild", to become a leader of a wolf pack is so touching yet horrible.

      On the contrary, White Fang tells a story about a wolf, born in the wild, but finally has to grow among the Indians and educated to be a sled dog. Because his owner had a debt due his liquor addiction, he was sold to a wicked white man who made him become a fighting wolf and had to face life and death at the arena. Similar with Buck, White Fang must learn how to surrender himself completely to a new situation. It gave me the creep when I read the author's desription about the submission process of a wolf to the hands of men. Domestification is not as simple as you think….

      Truly a splendid reading. You’ll learn (again) that the world can be so cruel and only the strong will prevail.
    • 4/5
      London, much like Kipling, does an excellent job of imagining what must go through an animal's head as they interact with us humans. We are an odd bunch to them, and he does good in trying to look at life through a different perspective. So often we are taken into the thought process of people, and I really enjoy when we are allowed to see into an animal's perspective.
    • 5/5
      This is another I haven't read since childhood, but remember well. Call of the Wild was brutal in subject matter and quite disturbing to a young girl, but interesting nonetheless. White Fang was more to my liking, but both were wonderful reads
    • 4/5
      I have not read White Fang yet, but Call of the Wild was a very good book. Well-written and no longer than it had to be, it is a great story told by a great storyteller.

    Book preview

    The Call of the Wild and White Fang - Jack London

    cover.jpg

    THE CALL OF THE WILD

    and

    WHITE FANG

    By JACK LONDON

    Illustrated by PHILIP R. GOODWIN and CHARLES LIVINGSTON BULL

    The Call of the Wild and White Fang

    By Jack London

    Illustrated by Philip R. Goodwin and Charles Livingston Bull

    Print ISBN 13: 978-1-4209-7549-9

    eBook ISBN 13: 978-1-4209-7716-5

    This edition copyright © 2021. Digireads.com Publishing.

    All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

    Cover Image: Original illustration by Charles Livingston Bull from the 1906 edition of White Fang published by The Macmillan Company, New York.

    Please visit www.digireads.com

    CONTENTS

    THE CALL OF THE WILD

    Chapter I. Into the Primitive

    Chapter II. The Law of Club and Fang.

    Chapter III. The Dominant Primordial Beast.

    Chapter IV. Who Has Won to Mastership.

    Chapter V. The Toil of Trace and Trail.

    Chapter VI. For the Love of a Man.

    Chapter VII. The Sounding of the Call.

    WHITE FANG

    Part I. The Wild

    Chapter I. The Trail of the Meat

    Chapter II. The She-Wolf

    Chapter III. The Hunger Cry

    Part II. Born of the Wild

    Chapter I. The Battle of the Fangs

    Chapter II. The Lair

    Chapter III. The Grey Cub

    Chapter IV. The Wall of the World

    Chapter V. The Law of Meat

    Part III. The Gods of the Wild

    Chapter I. The Makers of Fire

    Chapter II. The Bondage

    Chapter III. The Outcast

    Chapter IV. The Trail of the Gods

    Chapter V. The Covenant

    Chapter VI. The Famine

    Part IV. The Superior Gods

    Chapter I. The Enemy of His Kind

    Chapter II. The Mad God

    Chapter III. The Reign of Hate

    Chapter IV. The Clinging Death

    Chapter V. The Indomitable

    Chapter VI. The Love-Master

    Part V. The Tame

    Chapter I. The Long Trail

    Chapter II. The Southland

    Chapter III. The God’s Domain

    Chapter IV. The Call of Kind

    Chapter V. The Sleeping Wolf

    BIOGRAPHICAL AFTERWORD

    img1.pngimg2.pngimg3.png

    The Call of the Wild

    Chapter I. Into the Primitive

    "Old longings nomadic leap,

    Chafing at custom’s chain;

    Again from its brumal sleep

    Wakens the ferine strain."

    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, half hidden among the trees, through which glimpses could be caught of the wide cool veranda 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 outhouses, long grape arbors, 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 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 bid 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 even 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 was 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 organizing 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 chinked 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’s hands, 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 glazed, and he knew nothing when the train was flagged and the two men threw him into the baggage car.

    The next he knew, he was dimly aware that his tongue was hurting and that he was being jolted along in some kind of a conveyance. The hoarse shriek of a locomotive whistling a crossing told him where he was. He had travelled too often with the Judge not to know the sensation of riding in a baggage car. He opened his eyes, and into them came the unbridled anger of a kidnapped king. The man sprang for his throat, but Buck was too quick for him. His jaws closed on the hand, nor did they relax till his senses were choked out of him once more.

    Yep, has fits, the man said, hiding his mangled hand from the baggageman, who had been attracted by the sounds of struggle. I’m takin’ ’m up for the boss to ’Frisco. A crack dog-doctor there thinks that he can cure ’m.

    Concerning that night’s ride, the man spoke most eloquently for himself, in a little shed back of a saloon on the San Francisco water front.

    All I get is fifty for it, he grumbled; an’ I wouldn’t do it over for a thousand, cold cash.

    His hand was wrapped in a bloody handkerchief, and the right trouser leg was ripped from knee to ankle.

    How much did the other mug get? the saloon-keeper demanded.

    A hundred, was the reply. Wouldn’t take a sou less, so help me.

    That makes a hundred and fifty, the saloon-keeper calculated; and he’s worth it, or I’m a squarehead.

    The kidnapper undid the bloody wrappings and looked at his lacerated hand. If I don’t get the hydrophoby—

    It’ll be because you was born to hang, laughed the saloon-keeper. Here, lend me a hand before you pull your freight, he added.

    Dazed, suffering intolerable pain from throat and tongue, with the life half throttled out of him, Buck attempted to face his tormentors. But he was thrown down and choked repeatedly, till they succeeded in filing the heavy brass collar from off his neck. Then the rope was removed, and he was flung into a cagelike crate.

    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 boys 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. And 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 realized that that was what they wanted. Whereupon he lay down sullenly and allowed the crate to be lifted into a wagon. 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 carted about in another wagon; 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 blood-shot, and he was metamorphosed into a raging fiend. So changed was he that the Judge himself would not have recognized 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 wagon into a small, high-walled back yard. 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.

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    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 blood-shot 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 agonizing 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 ears, his beautiful 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 wagon 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 soliloquized, 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, wheedling, 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 seem’ 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 Francois. Perrault was a French-Canadian, and swarthy; but Francois 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 Francois were fair men, calm and impartial in administering justice, and too wise in the way of dogs to be fooled by dogs.

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    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 Francois’s whip sang through the air, reaching the culprit first; and nothing remained to Buck but to recover the bone. That was fair of Francois, he decided, and the half-breed began his rise in Buck’s estimation.

    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, favored 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. Francois 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 licked 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.

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    Chapter II. The Law of Club and Fang.

    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 civilization 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 Francois, 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. Francois fastened upon him an arrangement of straps and buckles. It was a harness, such as he had seen the grooms put on the horses at home. And as he had seen horses work, so he was set to work, hauling Francois 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. Francois was stern, demanding instant obedience, and by virtue of his whip receiving instant obedience; while Dave, who was an experienced wheeler, nipped Buck’s hind quarters 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 the traces to jerk Buck into the way he should go. Buck learned easily, and under the combined tuition of his two mates and Francois made remarkable progress. Ere 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, Francois 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 One. 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

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