Brown Wolf and Other Jack London Stories | Page 6

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 on
his forehead, his huge muscles bulging under the black cloth of his coat,
carefully looked the poet up and down as though measuring the
strength of his slenderness.
The Klondiker's face took on a contemptuous expression as he said
finally: "I reckon there's nothin' in sight to prevent me takin' the dog
right here an' now."
Walt's face reddened, and the striking-muscles of his arms and
shoulders seemed to stiffen and grow tense. His wife fluttered
apprehensively into the breach.
"Maybe Mr. Miller is right," she said. "I am afraid that he is. Wolf does
seem to know him, and certainly he answers to the name of 'Brown.' He
made friends with him instantly, and you know that's something he
never did with anybody before. Besides, look at the way he barked. He

was just bursting with joy. Joy over what? Without doubt at finding Mr.
Miller."
Walt's striking-muscles relaxed, and his shoulders seemed to droop
with hopelessness.
"I guess you're right, Madge," he said. "Wolf isn't Wolf, but Brown,
and he must belong to Mr. Miller."
"Perhaps Mr. Miller will sell him," she suggested. "We can buy him."
Skiff Miller shook his head, no longer belligerent, but kindly, quick to
be generous in response to generousness.
"I had five dogs," he said, casting about for the easiest way to temper
his refusal. "He was the leader. They was the crack team of Alaska.
Nothin' could touch 'em. In 1898 I refused five thousand dollars for the
bunch. Dogs was high, then, anyway; but that wasn't what made the
fancy price. It was the team itself. Brown was the best in the team. That
winter I refused twelve hundred for 'm. I didn't sell 'm then, an' I ain't
a-sellin' 'm now. Besides, I think a mighty lot of that dog. I've been
lookin' for 'm for three years. It made me fair sick when I found he'd
been stole--not the value of him, but the--well, I liked 'm so, that's all. I
couldn't believe my eyes when I seen 'm just now. I thought I was
dreamin'. It was too good to be true. Why, I was his nurse. I put 'm to
bed, snug every night. His mother died, and I brought 'm up on
condensed milk at two dollars a can when I couldn't afford it in my own
coffee. He never knew any mother but me. He used to suck my finger
regular, the darn little pup--that finger right there!"
And Skiff Miller, too overwrought for speech, held up a forefinger for
them to see.
"That very finger," he managed to articulate, as though it somehow
clinched the proof of ownership and the bond of affection.
He was still gazing at his extended finger when Madge began to speak.
"But the dog," she said. "You haven't considered the dog."
Skiff Miller looked puzzled.
"Have you thought about him?" she asked.
"Don't know what you're drivin' at," was the response.
"Maybe the dog has some choice in the matter," Madge went on.
"Maybe he has his likes and desires. You have not considered him. You
give him no choice. It has never entered your mind that possibly he
might prefer California to Alaska. You consider only what you like.

You do with him as you would with a sack of potatoes or a bale of
hay."
This was a new way of looking at it, and Miller was visibly impressed
as he debated it in his mind. Madge took advantage of his indecision.
"If you really love him, what would be happiness to him would be your
happiness also," she urged.
Skiff Miller continued to debate with himself, and Madge stole a glance
of exultation to her husband, who looked back warm approval.
"What do you think?" the Klondiker suddenly demanded.
It was her turn to be puzzled. "What do you mean?" she asked.
"D'ye think he'd sooner stay in California!"
She nodded her head with positiveness. "I am sure of it."
Skiff Miller again