"You may be a number one, tip-top minin' expert, all right all right,"the dog-musher delivered himself oracularly, "but you missed the chance of your life when you was a boy an' didn't run off an' join a circus."White Fang snarled at the sound of his voice, but this time did not leap away from under the hand that was caressing his head and the back of his neck with long, soothing strokes.
It was the beginning of the end for White Fang -- the ending of the old life and the reign of hate.A new and incomprehensibly fairer life was dawning.It required much thinking and endless patience on the part of Weedon Scott to accomplish this.And on the part of White Fang it required nothing less than a revolution.He had to ignore the urges and promptings of instinct and reason, defy experience, give the lie to life itself.
Life, as he had known it, not only had had no place in it for much that he now did; but all the currents had gone counter to those to which he now abandoned himself.In short, when all things were considered, he had to achieve an orientation far vaster than the one he had achieved at the time he came voluntarily in from the Wild and accepted Gray Beaver as his lord.At that time he was a mere puppy, soft from the making, without form, ready for the thumb of circumstance to begin its work upon him.But now it was different.The thumb of circumstance had done its work only too well.By it he had been formed and hardened into the Fighting Wolf, fierce and implacable, unloving and unlovable.To accomplish the change was like a reflux of being, and this when the plasticity of youth was no longer his; when the fibre of him had become tough and knotty; when the warp and the woof of him had made of him an adamantine texture, harsh and unyielding;when the face of his spirit had become iron and all his instincts and axioms had crystallized into set rules, cautions, dislikes, and desires.