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- Джек Лондон
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- Стр. 100/119
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"
We
plump
forgot
the
window
.
He
's
all
cut
an
'
gouged
underneath
.
Must
'
a
'
butted
clean
through
it
,
b
'
gosh
!
"
But
Weedon
Scott
was
not
listening
.
He
was
thinking
rapidly
.
The
Aurora
's
whistle
hooted
a
final
announcement
of
departure
.
Men
were
scurrying
down
the
gang-plank
to
the
shore
.
Matt
loosened
the
bandana
from
his
own
neck
and
started
to
put
it
around
White
Fang
's
.
Scott
grasped
the
dog-musher
's
hand
.
"
Good-bye
,
Matt
,
old
man
.
About
the
wolf
--
you
need
n't
write
.
You
see
,
I
've
...
!
"
"
What
!
"
the
dog-musher
exploded
.
"
You
do
n'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
.
White
Fang
landed
from
the
steamer
in
San
Francisco
.
He
was
appalled
.
Deep
in
him
,
below
any
reasoning
process
or
act
of
consciousness
,
he
had
associated
power
with
godhead
.
And
never
had
the
white
men
seemed
such
marvellous
gods
as
now
,
when
he
trod
the
slimy
pavement
of
San
Francisco
.
The
log
cabins
he
had
known
were
replaced
by
towering
buildings
.
The
streets
were
crowded
with
perils
--
waggons
,
carts
,
automobiles
;
great
,
straining
horses
pulling
huge
trucks
;
and
monstrous
cable
and
electric
cars
hooting
and
clanging
through
the
midst
,
screeching
their
insistent
menace
after
the
manner
of
the
lynxes
he
had
known
in
the
northern
woods
.
