It was not a good grip, being too low down toward the chest; butCherokee held on. White Fang sprang to his feet and tore wildly around,trying to shake off the bull-dog's body. It made him frantic, this clinging,dragging weight. It bound his movements, restricted his freedom. It waslike the trap, and all his instinct resented it and revolted against it. It was amad revolt. For several minutes he was to all Ball gownsinsane. The basic lifethat was in him took charge of him. The will to exist of his body surgedover him. He was dominated by this mere flesh-love of life. Allintelligence was gone. It was as though he had no brain. His reason wasunseated by the blind yearning of the flesh to exist and move, at allhazards to move, to continue to move, for movement was the expressionof its existence.

　　Round and round he went, whirling and turning and reversing, tryingto shake off the fifty-pound weight that dragged at his throat. The bull-dogdid little but keep his grip. Sometimes, and rarely, he managed to get hisfeet to the earth and for a moment to brace himself against White Fang.

　　But the next moment his footing would be lost and he would be draggingaround in the whirl of one of White Fang's mad gyrations. Cherokeeidentified himself with his instinct. He knew that he was doing the rightthing by holding on, and there came to him certain blissful thrills ofsatisfaction. At such moments he even closed his eyes and allowed hisbody to be hurled hither and thither, willy-nilly, careless of any hurt thatmight thereby come to it. That did not count. The grip was the thing, andthe grip he kept.

　　White Fang ceased only when he had tired himself out. He could donothing, and he could not understand. Never, in all his fighting, had thisthing happened. The dogs he had fought with did not fight that way. Withthem it was snap and slash and get away, snap and slash and get away. Helay partly on his side, panting for breath. Cherokee still holding his grip,urged against him, trying to get him over entirely on his side. White Fangresisted, and he could feel the jaws shifting their grip, slightly Tea-length wedding dresses andcoming together again in a chewing movement. Each shift brought the gripcloser to his throat. The bull-dog's method was to hold what he had, andwhen opportunity favoured to work in for more. Opportunity favouredwhen White Fang remained quiet. When White Fang struggled, Cherokeewas content merely to hold on.
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　The bulging back of Cherokee's neck was the only portion of his bodythat White Fang's teeth could reach. He got hold toward the base where theneck comes out from the shoulders; but he did not know the chewingmethod of fighting, nor were his jaws adapted to it. He spasmodicallyripped and tore with his fangs for a space. Then a change in their positiondiverted him. The  Beach wedding dresses had managed to roll him over on his back, andstill hanging on to his throat, was on top of him. Like a cat, White Fangbowed his hind- quarters in, and, with the feet digging into his enemy'sabdomen above him, he began to claw with long tearing-strokes. Cherokeemight well have been disembowelled had he not quickly pivoted on hisgrip and got his body off of White Fang's and at right angles to it.

　　There was no escaping that grip. It was like Fate itself, and asinexorable. Slowly it shifted up along the jugular. All that saved WhiteFang from death was the loose skin of his neck and the thick fur thatcovered it. This served to form a large roll in Cherokee's mouth, the fur ofwhich well-nigh defied his teeth. But bit by bit, whenever the chanceoffered, he was getting more of the loose skin and fur in his mouth. Theresult was that he was slowly throttling White Fang. The latter's breathwas drawn with greater and greater difficulty as the moments went by.

　　It began to look as though the battle were over. The backers ofCherokee waxed jubilant and offered ridiculous odds. White Fang'sbackers were correspondingly depressed, and refused bets of ten to oneand twenty to one, though one man was rash enough to close a wager offifty to one. This man was Beauty Smith. He took a step into the ring andpointed his finger at White Fang. Then he began to laugh derisively andscornfully. This produced the desired effect. White Fang went wild withrage. He called up his reserves of strength, and gained his feet. As hestruggled around the ring, the fifty pounds of his foe ever dragging on histhroat, his anger passed on into panic. The basic life of him dominated himagain, and his intelligence fled before the will of his flesh to live. Roundand round and back again, stumbling and falling and rising, evenuprearing at times on his hind-legs and lifting his foe clear of the earth, hestruggled vainly to shake off the clinging death.

　　At last he fell, toppling backward, exhausted; and the bull-dogpromptly shifted his grip, getting in closer, mangling more and more of thefur-folded flesh, throttling White Fang more severely than ever. Shouts ofapplause went up for the victor, and there were many cries of "Cherokee!""Cherokee!" To this Cherokee responded by vigorous wagging of thestump of his tail. But the clamour of Plus size wedding dresses did not distract him. Therewas no sympathetic relation between his tail and his massive jaws. Theone might wag, but the others held their terrible grip on White Fang'sthroat.

Not that Cherokee was slow. He could turn and whirl swiftly enough,but White Fang was never there. Cherokee was puzzled, too. He had neverfought before with a dog with which he could not close. The desire toclose had always been mutual. But here wasEmpire wedding dresses that kept at a distance,dancing and dodging here and there and all about. And when it did get itsteeth into him, it did not hold on but let go instantly and darted awayagain.

　　But White Fang could not get at the soft underside of the throat. Thebull-dog stood too short, while its massive jaws were an added protection.

　　White Fang darted in and out unscathed, while Cherokee's woundsincreased. Both sides of his neck and head were ripped and slashed. Hebled freely, but showed no signs of being disconcerted. He continued hisplodding pursuit, though once, for the moment baffled, he came to a fullstop and blinked at the men who looked on, at the same time wagging hisstump of a tail as an expression of his willingness to fight.

　　In that moment White Fang was in upon him and out, in passingripping his trimmed remnant of an ear. With a slight manifestation ofanger, Cherokee took up the pursuit again, running on the inside of thecircle White Fang was making, and striving to fasten his deadly grip onWhite Fang's throat. The bull-dog missed by a hair's-breadth, and cries ofpraise went up as White Fang doubled suddenly out of danger in theopposite direction.

　　The time went by. White Fang still danced on, dodging and doubling,leaping in and out, and ever inflicting damage. And still the bull-dog, withgrim certitude, toiled after him. Sooner or later he would accomplish hispurpose, get the grip that would win the battle. In the meantime, heaccepted all the punishment the other could deal him. His tufts of ears hadbecome tassels, his Mermaid wedding dressesand shoulders were slashed in a score of places,and his very lips were cut and bleeding - all from these lightning snapsthat were beyond his foreseeing and guarding.

　　Time and again White Fang had attempted to knock Cherokee off hisfeet; but the difference in their height was too great. Cherokee was toosquat, too close to the ground. White Fang tried the trick once too often.

　　The chance came in one of his quick doublings and counter-circlings. Hecaught Cherokee with head turned away as he whirled more slowly. Hisshoulder was exposed. White Fang drove in upon it: but his own shoulderwas high above, while he struck with such force that his momentumcarried him on across over the other's body. For the first time in hisfighting history, men saw White Fang lose his footing. His body turned ahalf-somersault in the air, and he would have landed on his back had henot twisted, catlike, still in the air, in the effort to bring his feet to the earth.
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For once White Fang did not make an immediate attack. He stood still,ears pricked forward, alert and curious, surveying the strange animal thatfaced him. He had never seen such a dog before. Tim Keenan shoved thebull-dog forward with 2010 evening dresses The animal waddled towardthe centre of the circle, short and squat and ungainly. He came to a stopand blinked across at White Fang.

　　There were cries from the crowd of, "Go to him, Cherokee! Sick 'm,Cherokee! Eat 'm up!"But Cherokee did not seem anxious to fight. He turned his head andblinked at the men who shouted, at the same time wagging his stump of atail good-naturedly. He was not afraid, but merely lazy. Besides, it did notseem to him that it was intended he should fight with the dog he sawbefore him. He was not used to fighting with that kind of dog, and he waswaiting for them to bring on the real dog.

　　Tim Keenan stepped in and bent over Cherokee, fondling him on bothsides of the shoulders with hands that rubbed against the grain of the hairand that made slight, pushing-forward movements. These were so manysuggestions. Also, their effect was irritating, for Cherokee began to growl,very softly, deep down in his throat. There was a correspondence inrhythm between the growls and the movements of the man's hands. Thegrowl rose in the throat with the culmination of each forward-pushingA-line wedding dresses, and ebbed down to start up afresh with the beginning of thenext movement. The end of each movement was the accent of the rhythm,the movement ending abruptly and the growling rising with a jerk.This was not without its effect on White Fang. The hair began to riseon his neck and across the shoulders. Tim Keenan gave a final shoveforward and stepped back again. As the impetus that carried Cherokeeforward died down, he continued to go forward of his own volition, in aswift, bow-legged run. Then White Fang struck. A cry of startledadmiration went up. He had covered the distance and gone in more like acat than a dog; and with the same cat-like swiftness he had slashed withhis fangs and leaped clear.

　　The bull-dog was bleeding back of one ear from a rip in his thick neck.

　　He gave no sign, did not even snarl, but turned and followed after WhiteFang. The display on both sides, the quickness of the one and thesteadiness of the other, had excited the partisan spirit of the crowd, and themen were making new bets and increasing original bets. Again, and yetagain, White Fang sprang in, slashed, and got away untouched, and stillhis strange foe followed after him, without too great haste, not slowly, butdeliberately and determinedly, in a businesslike sort of way. There waspurpose in his method - something for him to do that he was intent upondoing and from which nothing could distract him.

　　His whole demeanour, every action, was stamped with this purpose. Itpuzzled White Fang. Never had he seen such a dog. It had no hairprotection. It was soft, and bled easily. There was no thick mat of fur tobaffle White Fang's teeth as they were often baffled by dogs of his ownbreed. Each time that his teeth struck they sank easily into the yieldingflesh, while theColum wedding dresses did not seem able to defend itself. Anotherdisconcerting thing was that it made no outcry, such as he had beenaccustomed to with the other dogs he had fought. Beyond a growl or agrunt, the dog took its punishment silently. And never did it flag in itspursuit of him.

　When the steamboat arrived at Dawson, White Fang went ashore. Buthe still lived a public life, in a cage, surrounded by curious men. He wasexhibited as "the Fighting Wolf," and men paid fifty cents in gold dust tosee him. He was given no rest. Did he lie down to sleep, he was stirred upby a sharp stick - so that the audience might get its money's worth. Inorder to make the  green prom dresses interesting, he was kept in a rage most of thetime. But worse than all this, was the atmosphere in which he lived. Hewas regarded as the most fearful of wild beasts, and this was borne in tohim through the bars of the cage. Every word, every cautious action, onthe part of the men, impressed upon him his own terrible ferocity. It wasso much added fuel to the flame of his fierceness. There could be but oneresult, and that was that his ferocity fed upon itself and increased. It wasanother instance of the plasticity of his clay, of his capacity for beingmoulded by the pressure of environment.

　　In addition to being exhibited he was a professional fighting animal.

　　At irregular intervals, whenever a fight could be arranged, he was takenout of his cage and led off into the woods a few miles from town. Usuallythis occurred at night, so as to avoid interference from the mounted policeof the Territory. After a few hours of waiting, when daylight had come, theaudience and the dog with which he was to fight arrived. In this manner itcame about that he fought all sizes and breeds of dogs. It was a savageland, 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 otherdogs that died. He never knew defeat. His early training, when he foughtwith Lip-lip and the whole puppy-pack, stood him in good stead. Therewas the tenacity with which he clung to the earth. No dog could make himlose his footing. This was the favourite trick of the wolf breeds - to rush inupon him, either directly or with an unexpected swerve, in the hope ofstriking his shoulder and overthrowing him. Mackenzie hounds, Eskimoand Labrador dogs, huskies and Malemutes - all tried it on him, and allfailed. He was never known to lose his footing. Men told this to oneanother, and looked each time to see it happen; but White Fang alwaysdisappointed them.

　　Then there was his lightning quickness. It gave him a tremendousadvantage over his antagonists. No matter what their fighting experience,they had never encountered a dog that moved so swiftly as he. Also to bereckoned with, was the immediateness of his attack. The average dog wasaccustomed to the preliminaries of snarling and bristling and  light blue prom dresses,and the average dog was knocked off his feet and finished before he hadbegun 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 wentthrough its preliminaries, was good and ready, and even made the first attack.

　　But greatest of all the advantages in White Fang's favour, was hisexperience. He knew more about fighting than did any of the dogs thatfaced him. He had fought more fights, knew how to meet more tricks andmethods, and had more tricks himself, while his own method was scarcelyto be improved upon.

　　As the time went by, he had fewer and fewer fights. Men despaired ofmatching him with an equal, and Beauty Smith was compelled to pitwolves against him. These were trapped by the Indians for the purpose,and a fight between White Fang and a wolf was always sure to draw acrowd. Once, a full-grown female lynx was secured, and this time WhiteFang fought for his2010 wedding dresses . Her quickness matched his; her ferocity equalledhis; while he fought with his fangs alone, and she fought with her sharp-clawed feet as well.