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friends with him instantly, and you know that’s something he never did with anybody before. Besides, look at the way he barked. He was just bursting with joy. Joy over what? Without doubt at finding Mr. Miller.”
    Walt’s striking-muscles relaxed, and his shoulders seemed to droop with hopelessness.
    â€œI guess you’re right, Madge,” he said. “Wolf isn’t Wolf, but Brown, and he must belong to Mr. Miller.”
    â€œPerhaps Mr. Miller will sell him,” she suggested. “We can buy him.”
    Skiff Miller shook his head, no longer belligerent, but kindly, quick to be generous in response to generousness.
    â€œI had five dogs,” he said, casting about for the easiest way to temper his refusal. “He was the leader. They was the crack team of Alaska. Nothin’ could touch ’em. In 1898 I refused five thousand dollars for the bunch. Dogs was high, then, anyway; but that wasn’t what made the fancy price. It was the team itself. Brown was the best in the team. That winter I refused twelve hundred for ’m. I didn’t sell ’m then, an’ I ain’t a-sellin’ ’m now. Besides, I think a mighty lot of that dog. I’ve ben lookin’ for ’m for three years. It made me fair sick when I found he’d ben stole—not the value of him, but the—well, I liked ’m like hell, that’s all, beggin’ your pardon. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I seen ’m just now. I thought I was dreamin’. It was too good to be true. Why, I was his wet-nurse. I put ’m to bed, snug every night. His mother died, and I brought ’m up on condensed milk at two dollars a can when I couldn’t afford it in my own coffee. He never knew any mother but me. He used to suck my finger regular, the darn little cuss—that finger right there!”
    And Skiff Miller, too overwrought for speech, held up a forefinger for them to see.
    â€œThat very finger,” he managed to articulate, as though it somehow clinched the proof of ownership and the bond of affection.
    He was still gazing at his extended finger when Madge began to speak.
    â€œBut the dog,” she said. “You haven’t considered the dog.”
    Skiff Miller looked puzzled.
    â€œHave you thought about him?” she asked.
    â€œDon’t know what you’re drivin’ at,” was the response.
    â€œMaybe the dog has some choice in the matter,” Madge went on. “Maybe he has his likes and desires. You have not considered him. You give him no choice. It has never entered your mind that possibly he might prefer California to Alaska. You consider only what you like. You do with him as you would with a sack of potatoes or a bale of hay.”
    This was a new way of looking at it, and Miller was visibly impressed as he debated it in his mind. Madge took advantage of his indecision.
    â€œIf you really love him, what would be happiness to him would be your happiness also,” she urged.
    Skiff Miller continued to debate with himself, and Madge stole a glance of exultation to her husband, who looked back warm approval.
    â€œWhat do you think?” the Klondiker suddenly demanded.
    It was her turn to be puzzled. “What do you mean?” she asked.
    â€œD’ye think he’d sooner stay in California?”
    She nodded her head with positiveness. “I am sure of it.”
    Skiff Miller again debated with himself, though this time aloud, at the same time running his gaze in a judicial way over the mooted animal.
    â€œHe was a good worker. He’s done a heap of work for me. He never loafed on me, an’ he was a joe-dandy at hammerin’ a raw team into shape. He’s got a head on him. He can do everything but talk. He knows what you say to him. Look at ’m now. He knows we’re talkin’ about him.”
    The dog was lying at Skiff Miller’s feet, head close down on paws, ears erect and listening, and