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"It's hopeless," Weedon Scott confessed.
He sat on the step of his cabin and stared at the dog–musher, who responded with a shrug that was equally hopeless.
Together they looked at White Fang at the end of his stretched chain, bristling, snarling, ferocious, straining to get at the sled–dogs. Having received sundry lessons from Matt, said lessons being imparted by means of a club, the sled–dogs had learned to leave White Fang alone; and even then they were lying down at a distance, apparently oblivious of his existence.
"It's a wolf and there's no taming it," Weedon Scott announced.
"Oh, I don't know about that," Matt objected. "Might be a lot of dog in 'm, for all you can tell. But there's one thing I know sure, an' that there's no gettin' away from."
The dog–musher paused and nodded his head confidentially at Moosehide Mountain.
"Well, don't be a miser with what you know," Scott said sharply, after waiting a suitable length of time. "Spit it out. What is it?"
The dog–musher indicated White Fang with a backward thrust of his thumb.