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The Word! "
You are what you
"Take time to read. It is the
fountain of wisdom."
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THE REIGN OF HATE
Under the tutelage of the mad god, White Fang became a fiend. He
was kept chained in a pen at the rear of the fort, and here Beauty
Smith teased and irritated and drove him wild with petty torments.
The man early discovered White Fang's susceptibility to laughter,
and made it a point after painfully tricking him, to laugh at him.
This laughter was uproarious and scornful, and at the same time the
god pointed his finger derisively at White Fang. At such times
reason fled from White Fang, and in his transports of rage he was
even more mad than Beauty Smith.
Formerly, White Fang had been merely the enemy of his kind, withal
a ferocious enemy. He now became the enemy of all things, and more
ferocious than ever. To such an extent was he tormented, that he
hated blindly and without the faintest spark of reason. He hated
the chain that bound him, the men who peered in at him through the
slats of the pen, the dogs that accompanied the men and that
snarled malignantly at him in his helplessness. He hated the very
wood of the pen that confined him. And, first, last, and most of
all, he hated Beauty Smith.
But Beauty Smith had a purpose in all that he did to White Fang.
One day a number of men gathered about the pen. Beauty Smith
entered, club in hand, and took the chain off from White Fang's
neck. When his master had gone out, White Fang turned loose and
tore around the pen, trying to get at the men outside. He was
magnificently terrible. Fully five feet in length, and standing
two and one-half feet at the shoulder, he far outweighed a wolf of
corresponding size. From his mother he had inherited the heavier
proportions of the dog, so that he weighed, without any fat and
without an ounce of superfluous flesh, over ninety pounds. It was
all muscle, bone, and sinew-fighting flesh in the finest condition.
The door of the pen was being opened again. White Fang paused.
Something unusual was happening. He waited. The door was opened
wider. Then a huge dog was thrust inside, and the door was slammed
shut behind him. White Fang had never seen such a dog (it was a
mastiff); but the size and fierce aspect of the intruder did not
deter him. Here was some thing, not wood nor iron, upon which to
wreak his hate. He leaped in with a flash of fangs that ripped
down the side of the mastiff's neck. The mastiff shook his head,
growled hoarsely, and plunged at White Fang. But White Fang was
here, there, and everywhere, always evading and eluding, and always
leaping in and slashing with his fangs and leaping out again in
time to escape punishment.
The men outside shouted and applauded, while Beauty Smith, in an
ecstasy of delight, gloated over the rippling and manging performed
by White Fang. There was no hope for the mastiff from the first.
He was too ponderous and slow. In the end, while Beauty Smith beat
White Fang back with a club, the mastiff was dragged out by its
owner. Then there was a payment of bets, and money clinked in
Beauty Smith's hand.
White Fang came to look forward eagerly to the gathering of the men
around his pen. It meant a fight; and this was the only way that
was now vouchsafed him of expressing the life that was in him.
Tormented, incited to hate, he was kept a prisoner so that there
was no way of satisfying that hate except at the times his master
saw fit to put another dog against him. Beauty Smith had estimated
his powers well, for he was invariably the victor. One day, three
dogs were turned in upon him in succession. Another day a full-
grown wolf, fresh-caught from the Wild, was shoved in through the
door of the pen. And on still another day two dogs were set
against him at the same time. This was his severest fight, and
though in the end he killed them both he was himself half killed in
In the fall of the year, when the first snows were falling and
mush-ice was running in the river, Beauty Smith took passage for
himself and White Fang on a steamboat bound up the Yukon to Dawson.
White Fang had now achieved a reputation in the land. As "the
Fighting Wolf" he was known far and wide, and the cage in which he
was kept on the steam-boat's deck was usually surrounded by curious
men. He raged and snarled at them, or lay quietly and studied them
with cold hatred. Why should he not hate them? He never asked
himself the question. He knew only hate and lost himself in the
passion of it. Life had become a hell to him. He had not been
made for the close confinement wild beasts endure at the hands of
men. And yet it was in precisely this way that he was treated.
Men stared at him, poked sticks between the bars to make him snarl,
and then laughed at him.
They were his environment, these men, and they were moulding the
clay of him into a more ferocious thing than had been intended by
Nature. Nevertheless, Nature had given him plasticity. Where many
another animal would have died or had its spirit broken, he
adjusted himself and lived, and at no expense of the spirit.
Possibly Beauty Smith, arch-fiend and tormentor, was capable of
breaking White Fang's spirit, but as yet there were no signs of his
If Beauty Smith had in him a devil, White Fang had another; and the
two of them raged against each other unceasingly. In the days
before, White Fang had had the wisdom to cower down and submit to a
man with a club in his hand; but this wisdom now left him. The
mere sight of Beauty Smith was sufficient to send him into
transports of fury. And when they came to close quarters, and he
had been beaten back by the club, he went on growling and snarling,
and showing his fangs. The last growl could never be extracted
from him. No matter how terribly he was beaten, he had always
another growl; and when Beauty Smith gave up and withdrew, the
defiant growl followed after him, or White Fang sprang at the bars
of the cage bellowing his hatred.
When the steamboat arrived at Dawson, White Fang went ashore. But
he still lived a public life, in a cage, surrounded by curious men.
He was exhibited as "the Fighting Wolf," and men paid fifty cents
in gold dust to see him. He was given no rest. Did he lie down to
sleep, he was stirred up by a sharp stick - so that the audience
might get its money's worth. In order to make the exhibition
interesting, he was kept in a rage most of the time. But worse
than all this, was the atmosphere in which he lived. He was
regarded as the most fearful of wild beasts, and this was borne in
to him through the bars of the cage. Every word, every cautious
action, on the part of the men, impressed upon him his own terrible
ferocity. It was so much added fuel to the flame of his
fierceness. There could be but one result, and that was that his
ferocity fed upon itself and increased. It was another instance of
the plasticity of his clay, of his capacity for being moulded by
the pressure of environment.
In addition to being exhibited he was a professional fighting
animal. At irregular intervals, whenever a fight could be
arranged, he was taken out of his cage and led off into the woods a
few miles from town. Usually this occurred at night, so as to
avoid interference from the mounted police of the Territory. After
a few hours of waiting, when daylight had come, the audience and
the dog with which he was to fight arrived. In this manner it came
about that he fought all sizes and breeds of dogs. It was a savage
land, the men were savage, and the fights were usually to the
Since White Fang continued to fight, it is obvious that it was the
other dogs that died. He never knew defeat. His early training,
when he fought with Lip-lip and the whole puppy-pack, stood him in
good stead. There was the tenacity with which he clung to the
earth. No dog could make him lose his footing. This was the
favourite trick of the wolf breeds - to rush in upon him, either
directly or with an unexpected swerve, in the hope of striking his
shoulder and overthrowing him. Mackenzie hounds, Eskimo and
Labrador dogs, huskies and Malemutes - all tried it on him, and all
failed. He was never known to lose his footing. Men told this to
one another, and looked each time to see it happen; but White Fang
always disappointed them.
Then there was his lightning quickness. It gave him a tremendous
advantage over his antagonists. No matter what their fighting
experience, they had never encountered a dog that moved so swiftly
as he. Also to be reckoned with, was the immediateness of his
attack. The average dog was accustomed to the preliminaries of
snarling and bristling and growling, and the average dog was
knocked off his feet and finished before he had begun to fight or
recovered from his surprise. So often did this happen, that it
became the custom to hold White Fang until the other dog went
through its preliminaries, was good and ready, and even made the
But greatest of all the advantages in White Fang's favour, was his
experience. He knew more about fighting than did any of the dogs
that faced him. He had fought more fights, knew how to meet more
tricks and methods, and had more tricks himself, while his own
method was scarcely to be improved upon.
As the time went by, he had fewer and fewer fights. Men despaired
of matching him with an equal, and Beauty Smith was compelled to
pit wolves against him. These were trapped by the Indians for the
purpose, and a fight between White Fang and a wolf was always sure
to draw a crowd. Once, a full-grown female lynx was secured, and
this time White Fang fought for his life. Her quickness matched
his; her ferocity equalled his; while he fought with his fangs
alone, and she fought with her sharp-clawed feet as well.
But after the lynx, all fighting ceased for White Fang. There were
no more animals with which to fight - at least, there was none
considered worthy of fighting with him. So he remained on
exhibition until spring, when one Tim Keenan, a faro-dealer,
arrived in the land. With him came the first bull-dog that had
ever entered the Klondike. That this dog and White Fang should
come together was inevitable, and for a week the anticipated fight
was the mainspring of conversation in certain quarters of the town.
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