The months went by.White Fang grew stronger, heavier, and more compact, while his character was developing along the lines laid down by his heredity and his environment.His heredity was a life-stuff that may be likened to clay.It possessed many possibilities, was capable of being moulded into many different forms.Environment served to model the clay, to give it a particular form.Thus, had White Fang never come in to the fires of man, the Wild would have moulded him into a true wolf.But the gods had given him a different environment, and he was moulded into a dog that was rather wolfish, but that was a dog and not a wolf.
And so, according to the clay of his nature and the pressure of his surroundings, his character was being moulded into a certain particular shape.There was no escaping it.He was becoming more morose, more uncompanionable, more solitary, more ferocious; while the dogs were learning more and more that it was better to be at peace with him than at war, and Gray Beaver was coming to prize him more greatly with the passage of each day.
White Fang, seeming to sum up strength in all his qualities, nevertheless suffered from one besetting weakness.He could not stand being laughed at.The laughter of men was a hateful thing.They might laugh among themselves about anything they pleased except himself, and he did not mind.But the moment laughter was turned upon him he would fly into a most terrible rage.