Brown Wolf and Other Jack London Stories. Джек Лондон

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      "Yes'm, thank you, ma'am," he mumbled mechanically. Then he caught himself up and added: "I ain't stoppin' long. I got to be pullin' north again. I go out on to-night's train. You see, I've got a mail contract with the government."

      When Madge had said that it was too bad, he made another futile effort to go. But he could not take his eyes from her face. He forgot his embarrassment in his admiration, and it was her turn to flush and feel uncomfortable.

      It was at this juncture, when Walt had just decided it was time for him to be saying something to relieve the strain, that Wolf, who had been away nosing through the brush, trotted wolf-like into view.

      Skiff Miller's abstraction disappeared. The pretty woman before him passed out of his field of vision. He had eyes only for the dog, and a great wonder came into his face.

      "Well, I'll be hanged!" he enunciated slowly and solemnly.

      He sat down ponderingly on the log, leaving Madge standing. At the sound of his voice, Wolf's ears had flattened down, then his mouth had opened in a laugh. He trotted slowly up to the stranger and first smelled his hands, then licked them with his tongue.

      Skiff Miller patted the dog's head, and slowly and solemnly repeated,

      "Well, I'll be hanged!"

      "Excuse me, ma'am," he said the next moment, "I was just s'prised some, that was all."

      "We're surprised, too," she answered lightly. "We never saw Wolf make up to a stranger before."

      "Is that what you call him – Wolf?" the man asked.

      Madge nodded. "But I can't understand his friendliness toward you – unless it's because you're from the Klondike. He's a Klondike dog, you know."

      "Yes'm," Miller said absently. He lifted one of Wolf's forelegs and examined the footpads, pressing them and denting them with his thumb. "Kind of soft," he remarked. "He ain't been on trail for a long time."

      "I say," Walt broke in, "it is remarkable the way he lets you handle him."

      Skiff Miller arose, no longer awkward with admiration of Madge, and in a sharp, businesslike manner asked, "How long have you had him?"

      But just then the dog, squirming and rubbing against the newcomer's legs, opened his mouth and barked. It was an explosive bark, brief and joyous, but a bark.

      "That's a new one on me," Skiff Miller remarked.

      Walt and Madge stared at each other. The miracle had happened. Wolf had barked.

      "It's the first time he ever barked," Madge said.

      "First time I ever heard him, too," Miller volunteered.

      Madge smiled at him. The man was evidently a humorist.

      "Of course," she said, "since you have only seen him for five minutes."

      Skiff Miller looked at her sharply, seeking in her face the guile her words had led him to suspect.

      "I thought you understood," he said slowly. "I thought you'd tumbled to it from his makin' up to me. He's my dog. His name ain't Wolf. It's Brown."

      "Oh, Walt!" was Madge's instinctive cry to her husband.

      Walt was on the defensive at once.

      "How do you know he's your dog?" he demanded.

      "Because he is," was the reply.

      "Mere assertion," Walt said sharply.

      In his slow and pondering way, Skiff Miller looked at him, then asked, with a nod of his head toward Madge:

      "How d'you know she's your wife? You just say, 'Because she is,' and I'll say it's mere assertion. The dog's mine. I bred 'm an' raised 'm, an' I guess I ought to know. Look here. I'll prove it to you."

      Skiff Miller turned to the dog. "Brown!" His voice rang out sharply, and at the sound the dog's ears flattened down as to a caress. "Gee!" The dog made a swinging turn to the right. "Now mush-on!" And the dog ceased his swing abruptly and started straight ahead, halting obediently at command.

      "I can do it with whistles," Skiff Miller said proudly. "He was my lead dog."

      "But you are not going to take him away with you?" Madge asked tremulously.

      The man nodded.

      "Back into that awful Klondike world of suffering?"

      He nodded and added: "Oh, it ain't so bad as all that. Look at me.

      Pretty healthy specimen, ain't I!"

      "But the dogs! The terrible hardship, the heart-breaking toil, the starvation, the frost! Oh, I've read about it and I know."

      "I nearly ate him once, over on Little Fish River," Miller volunteered grimly. "If I hadn't got a moose that day was all that saved 'm."

      "I'd have died first!" Madge cried.

      "Things is different down here," Miller explained. "You don't have to eat dogs. You think different just about the time you're all in. You've never been all in, so you don't know anything about it."

      "That's the very point," she argued warmly. "Dogs are not eaten in California. Why not leave him here? He is happy. He'll never want for food – you know that. He'll never suffer from cold and hardship. Here all is softness and gentleness. Neither the human nor nature is savage. He will never know a whip-lash again. And as for the weather – why, it never snows here."

      "But it's all-fired hot in summer, beggin' your pardon," Skiff Miller laughed.

      "But you do not answer," Madge continued passionately. "What have you to offer him in that northland life?"

      "Grub, when I've got it, and that's most of the time," came the answer.

      "And the rest of the time?"

      "No grub."

      "And the work?"

      "Yes, plenty of work," Miller blurted out impatiently. "Work without end, an' famine, an' frost, an' all the rest of the miseries – that's what he'll get when he comes with me. But he likes it. He is used to it. He knows that life. He was born to it an' brought up to it. An' you don't know anything about it. You don't know what you're talking about. That's where the dog belongs, and that's where he'll be happiest."

      "The dog doesn't go," Walt announced in a determined voice. "So there is no need of further discussion."

      "What's that?" Skiff Miller demanded, big brows lowering and an obstinate flush of blood reddening his forehead.

      "I said the dog doesn't go, and that settles it. I don't believe he's your dog. You may have seen him sometime. You may even sometime have driven him for his owner. But his obeying the ordinary driving commands of the Alaskan trail is no demonstration that he is yours. Any dog in Alaska would obey you as he obeyed. Besides, he is undoubtedly a valuable dog, as dogs go in Alaska, and that is sufficient explanation of your desire to get possession of him. Anyway, you've got to prove property."

      Skiff Miller, cool and collected, the obstinate flush a trifle deeper СКАЧАТЬ