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any fat and without an ounce of superfluous flesh； over ninety pounds。 It
was all muscle； bone； and sinew…fighting flesh in the finest condition。
The door of the pen was being opened again。 White Fang paused。
Something unusual was happening。 He waited。 The door was opened
wider。 Then a huge dog was thrust inside； and the door was slammed shut
behind him。 White Fang had never seen such a dog （it was a mastiff）； but
the size and fierce aspect of the intruder did not deter him。 Here was some
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thing； not wood nor iron； upon which to wreak his hate。 He leaped in with
a flash of fangs that ripped down the side of the mastiff's neck。 The mastiff
shook his head； growled hoarsely； and plunged at White Fang。 But White
Fang was here； there； and everywhere； always evading and eluding； and
always leaping in and slashing with his fangs and leaping out again in time
to escape punishment。
The men outside shouted and applauded； while Beauty Smith； in an
ecstasy of delight； gloated over the rippling and manging performed by
White Fang。 There was no hope for the mastiff from the first。 He was too
ponderous and slow。 In the end； while Beauty Smith beat White Fang back
with a club； the mastiff was dragged out by its owner。 Then there was a
payment of bets； and money clinked in Beauty Smith's hand。
White Fang came to look forward eagerly to the gathering of the men
around his pen。 It meant a fight； and this was the only way that was now
vouchsafed him of expressing the life that was in him。 Tormented； incited
to hate； he was kept a prisoner so that there was no way of satisfying that
hate except at the times his master saw fit to put another dog against him。
Beauty Smith had estimated his powers well； for he was invariably the
victor。 One day； three dogs were turned in upon him in succession。
Another day a full… grown wolf； fresh…caught from the Wild； was shoved
in through the door of the pen。 And on still another day two dogs were set
against him at the same time。 This was his severest fight； and though in the
end he killed them both he was himself half killed in doing it。
In the fall of the year； when the first snows were falling and mush…ice
was running in the river； Beauty Smith took passage for himself and White
Fang on a steamboat bound up the Yukon to Dawson。 White Fang had now
achieved a reputation in the land。 As 〃the Fighting Wolf〃 he was known
far and wide； and the cage in which he was kept on the steam…boat's deck
was usually surrounded by curious men。 He raged and snarled at them； or
lay quietly and studied them with cold hatred。 Why should he not hate
them？ He never asked himself the question。 He knew only hate and lost
himself in the passion of it。 Life had become a hell to him。 He had not
been made for the close confinement wild beasts endure at the hands of
men。 And yet it was in precisely this way that he was treated。 Men stared
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at him； poked sticks between the bars to make him snarl； and then laughed
at him。
They were his environment； these men； and they were moulding the
clay of him into a more ferocious thing than had been intended by Nature。
Nevertheless； Nature had given him plasticity。 Where many another
animal would have died or had its spirit broken； he adjusted himself and
lived； and at no expense of the spirit。 Possibly Beauty Smith； arch…fiend
and tormentor； was capable of breaking White Fang's spirit； but as yet
there were no signs of his succeeding。
If Beauty Smith had in him a devil； White Fang had another； and the
two of them raged against each other unceasingly。 In the days before；
White Fang had had the wisdom to cower down and submit to a man with
a club in his hand； but this wisdom now left him。 The mere sight of Beauty
Smith was sufficient to send him into transports of fury。 And when they
came to close quarters； and he had been beaten back by the club； he went
on growling and snarling； and showing his fangs。 The last growl could
never be extracted from him。 No matter how terribly he was beaten； he
had always another growl； and when Beauty Smith gave up and withdrew；
the defiant growl followed after him； or White Fang sprang at the bars of
the cage bellowing his hatred。
When the steamboat arrived at Dawson； White Fang went ashore。 But
he still lived a public life； in a cage； surrounded by curious men。 He was
exhibited as 〃the Fighting Wolf；〃 and men paid fifty cents in gold dust to
see him。 He was given no rest。 Did he lie down to sleep； he was stirred up
by a sharp stick … so that the audience might get its money's worth。 In
order to make the exhibition interesting； he was kept in a rage most of the
time。 But worse than all this； was the atmosphere in which he lived。 He
was regarded as the most fearful of wild beasts； and this was borne in to
him through the bars of the cage。 Every word； every cautious action； on
the part of the men； impressed upon him his own terrible ferocity。 It was
so much added fuel to the flame of his fierceness。 There could be but one
result； and that was that his ferocity fed upon itself and increased。 It was
another instance of the plasticity of his clay； of his capacity for being
moulded by the pressure of environment。
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In addition to being exhibited he was a professional fighting animal。
At irregular intervals； whenever a fight could be arranged； he was taken
out of his cage and led off into the woods a few miles from town。 Usually
this occurred at night； so as to avoid interference from the mounted police
of the Territory。 After a few hours of waiting； when daylight had come； the
audience and the dog with which he was to fight arrived。 In this manner it
came about that he fought all sizes and breeds of dogs。 It was a savage
land； the men were savage； and the fights were usually to the death。
Since White Fang continued to fight； it is obvious that it was the other
dogs that died。 He never knew defeat。 His early training； when he fought
with Lip…lip and the whole puppy…pack； stood him in good stead。 There
was the tenacity with which he clung to the earth。 No dog could make him
lose his footing。 This was the favourite trick of the wolf breeds … to rush in
upon him； either directly or with an unexpected swerve； in the hope of
striking his shoulder and overthrowing him。 Mackenzie hounds； Eskimo
and Labrador dogs； huskies and Malemutes … all tried it on him； and all
failed。 He was never known to lose his footing。 Men told this to one
another； and looked each time to see it happen； but White Fang always
disappointed them。
Then there was his lightning quickness。 It gave him a tremendous
advantage over his antagonists。 No matter what their fighting experience；
they had never encountered a dog that moved so swiftly as he。 Also to be
reckoned with； was the immediateness of his attack。 The average dog was
accustomed to the preliminaries of snarling and bristling and growling；
and the average dog was knocked off his feet and finished before he had
begun to fight or recovered from his surprise。 So often did this happen；
that it became the custom to hold White Fang until the other dog went
through its preliminaries； was good and ready； and even made the first
attack。
But greatest of all the advantages in White Fang's favour； was his
experience。 He knew more about fighting than did any of the dogs that
faced him。 He had fought more fights； knew how to meet more tricks and
methods； and had more tricks himself； while his own method was scarcely
to be improved upon。
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As the time went by； he had fewer and fewer fights。 Men despaired of
matching him with an equal； and Beauty Smith was compelled to pit
wolve