sank back into the snow. His eyes were half closed, and the surface of them was glassy. His jaws were apart, and through them the tongue protruded, draggled and limp. To all appearances he looked like a dog that had been strangled to death. Matt examined him.
“Just about all in,” he announced; “but he’s breathin’ all right.”
Beauty Smith had regained his feet and come over to look at White Fang.
“Matt, how much is a good sled-dog worth?” Scott asked.
The dog-musher, still on his knees and stooped over White Fang, calculated for a moment.
“Three hundred dollars,” he answered.
“And how much for one that’s all chewed up like this one?” Scott asked, nudging White Fang with his foot.
“Half of that,” was the dog-musher’s judgment. Scott turned upon Beauty Smith.
“Did you hear, Mr. Beast? I’m going to take your dog from you, and I’m going to give you a hundred and fifty for him.”
He opened his pocketbook and counted out the bills.
Beauty Smith put his hands behind his back, refusing to touch the proffered money.
“I ain’t a-sellin’,” he said.
“Oh, yes you are,” the other assured him. “Because I’m buying. Here’s your money. The dog’s mine.”
Beauty Smith, his hands still behind him, began to back away.