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Weedon Scott saw and nodded. Not a word was spoken. The dog–musher laid his hand on Beauty Smith's shoulder and faced him to the right about. No word needed to be spoken. Beauty Smith started.
In the meantime the love–master was patting White Fang and talking to him.
"Tried to steal you, eh? And you wouldn't have it! Well, well, he made a mistake, didn't he?"
"Must 'a' thought he had hold of seventeen devils," the dog–musher sniggered.
White Fang, still wrought up and bristling, growled and growled, the hair slowly lying down, the crooning note remote and dim, but growing in his throat.