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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
do
n'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
,
do
n'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
.
"
Wolf
or
dog
,
it
's
all
the
same
--
he
's
ben
tamed
'
ready
.
"
"
No
!
"
