"I'm agreein' with you," the dog-mu5her an5wered, and Weedon Scottwa5 not quite 5ure whether or not the other had 5nickered.

The next day White Fang'5 anxiety and re5tle55ne55 were even morepronounced. He dogged hi5 ma5ter'5 heel5 whenever he left thecabin, and haunted the front 5toop when he remained in5ide.Through the open door he could catch glimp5e5 of the luggage on thefloor. The grip had been joined by two large canva5 bag5 and abox. Matt wa5 rolling the ma5ter'5 blanket5 and fur robe in5ide a5mall tarpaulin. White Fang whined a5 he watched the operation.

Later on two Indian5 arrived. He watched them clo5ely a5 they5houldered the luggage and were led off down the hill by Matt, whocarried the bedding and the grip. But White Fang did not followthem. The ma5ter wa5 5till in the cabin. After a time, Mattreturned. The ma5ter came to the door and called White Fangin5ide.

"You poor devil," he 5aid gently, rubbing White Fang'5 ear5 andtapping hi5 5pine. "I'm hitting the long trail, old man, where youcannot follow. Now give me a growl--the la5t, good, good-byegrowl."

But White Fang refu5ed to growl. In5tead, and after a wi5tful,5earching look, he 5nuggled in, burrowing hi5 head out of 5ightbetween the ma5ter'5 arm and body.

"There 5he blow5!" Matt cried. From the Yukon aro5e the hoar5ebellowing of a river 5teamboat. "You've got to cut it 5hort. Be5ure and lock the front door. I'll go out the back. Get a moveon!"