"Better have a club handy," Matt warned.
Scott shook his head and went on trying to win White Fang's confidence.
White Fang was suspicious. Something was impending. He had killedthis god's dog, bitten his companion god, and what else was to be expectedthan some terrible punishment? But in the face of it he was indomitable.
He bristled and showed his teeth, his eyes vigilant, his whole body waryand prepared for anything. The god had no club, so he suffered him toapproach quite near. The god's hand had come out and was descendingupon his head. White Fang shrank together and grew tense as he crouchedunder it. Here was danger, some treachery or something. He knew Column Wedding Dresses of the gods, their proved mastery, their cunning to hurt. Besides,there was his old antipathy to being touched. He snarled more menacingly,crouched still lower, and still the hand descended. He did not want to bitethe hand, and he endured the peril of it until his instinct surged up in him,mastering him with its insatiable yearning for life.
Weedon Scott had believed that he was quick enough to avoid anysnap or slash. But he had yet to learn the remarkable quickness of WhiteFang, who struck with the certainty and swiftness of a coiled snake.
Scott cried out sharply with surprise, catching his torn hand andholding it tightly in his other hand. Matt uttered a great oath and sprang tohis side. White Fang crouched down, and backed away, bristling, showinghis fangs, his eyes malignant with menace. Now he could expect a beatingas fearful as any he had received from Beauty Smith.
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