"What!" the dog–musher exploded. "You don't mean to say . . .?"
"The very thing I mean. Here's your bandana. I'll write to you about him."
Matt paused halfway down the gang–plank.
"He'll never stand the climate!" he shouted back. "Unless you clip 'm in warm weather!"
The gang–plank was hauled in, and the Aurora swung out from the bank. Weedon Scott waved a last good–bye. Then he turned and bent over White Fang, standing by his side.
"Now growl, damn you, growl," he said, as he patted the responsive head and rubbed the flattening ears.