“Home! Go home!” the master commanded when he had ascertained his injury. White Fang was disinclined to desert him. The master thought of writing a note, but searched his pockets vainly for pencil and paper. Again he commanded White Fang to go home. The latter regarded him wistfully, started away, then returned and whined softly. The master talked to him gently but seriously, and he cocked his ears, and listened with painful intentness. “That’s all right, old fellow, you just run along home,” ran the talk. “Go on home and tell them what’s happened to me. Home with you, you wolf. Get along home!” White Fang knew the meaning of “home,” and though he did not understand the remainder of the master’s language, he knew it was his will that he should go home. He turned and trotted reluctantly away. Then he stopped, undecided, and looked back over his shoulder. “Go home!” came the sharp command, and this time he obeyed. The family was on the porch, taking the cool of the afternoon, when White Fang arrived. He came in among them, panting, covered with dust. “Weedon’s back,” Weedon’s mother announced. The children welcomed White Fang with glad cries and ran to meet him. He avoided them and passed down the porch, but they cornered him against a rocking-chair and the railing. He growled and tried to push by them. Their mother looked apprehensively in their direction. “I confess, he makes me nervous around the children,” she said. “I have a dread that he will turn upon them unexpectedly some day.” Growling savagely, White Fang sprang out of the corner, overturning the boy and the girl. The mother called them to her and comforted them, telling them not to bother White Fang. “A wolf is a wolf!” commented Judge Scott. “There is no trusting one.” “But he is not all wolf,” interposed Beth, standing for her brother in his absence. “You have only Weedon’s opinion for that,” rejoined the judge. “He merely surmises that there is some strain of dog in White Fang; but as he will tell you himself, he knows nothing about it. As for his appearance—” He did not finish his sentence. White Fang stood before him, growling fiercely. “Go away! Lie down, sir!” Judge Scott commanded. White Fang turned to the love-master’s wife. She screamed with fright as he seized her dress in his teeth and dragged on it till the frail fabric tore away. By this time he had become the centre of interest. He had ceased from his growling and stood, head up, looking into their faces. His throat worked spasmodically, but made no sound, while he struggled with all his body, convulsed with the effort to rid himself of the incommunicable something that strained for utterance. “I hope he is not going mad,” said Weedon’s mother. “I told Weedon that I was afraid the warm climate would not agree with an Arctic animal.” “He’s trying to speak, I do believe,” Beth announced. At this moment speech came to White Fang, rushing up in a great burst of barking.