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London, Jack, 1876-1916

"The Son of the Wolf"

Covered with
frost, the dogs were curled up in the snow, and it was almost
impossible to get them to their feet. The poor brutes whined
under the stinging lash, for the dog drivers were angry and
cruel; nor till Babette, the leader, was cut from the traces,
could they break out the sled and get under way.
'A dirty scoundrel and a liar!' 'By gar! Him no good!' 'A thief!'
'Worse than an Indian!'
It was evident that they were angry--first at the way they had
been deceived; and second at the outraged ethics of the
Northland, where honesty, above all, was man's prime jewel.
'An' we gave the cuss a hand, after knowin' what he'd did.' All
eyes turned accusingly upon Malemute Kid, who rose from the
corner where he had been making Babette comfortable, and silently
emptied the bowl for a final round of punch.
'It's a cold night, boys--a bitter cold night,' was the
irrelevant commencement of his defense. 'You've all traveled
trail, and know what that stands for. Don't jump a dog when he's
down. You've only heard one side. A whiter man than Jack
Westondale never ate from the same pot nor stretched blanket with
you or me.
'Last fall he gave his whole clean-up, forty thousand, to Joe
Castrell, to buy in on Dominion.


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