So, day after day, I would be dispatched to some far corner of the yard to chalk an exorbitant quantity of stock that would never be used, and then wait it out on the wheel of the crane until she, and then he, appeared. Eventually I had chalked every scrap of metal in the yard, many several times with different coloured chalks, and then, just when I was getting used to it, the pattern of events changed again.
I returned from another such fool’s errand, my fingers white with chalk dust, to find the shed door was open. It might just as well have been bolted for, when I tried to cross the threshold, I was confronted by such stern looks from Mort Decker, in his chair, and Judy Simmons, standing in the furtherest corner of the shed, that even I saw the wisdom of retreat. I went and sat on the wheel of the crane and heard the door snap shut behind me.
When the long winter nights come on and the wolves follow their meat into the lower valleys, he may be seen running at the head of the pack through the pale moonlight or glimmering borealis, leaping gigantic above his fellows, his great throat a-bellow as he sings a song of the younger world, which is the song of the pack.
...and...
Thus he was trying to shield himself from White Fang’s teeth. And there was need for it. White Fang was in a rage, wickedly making his attack on the most vulnerable spot. From shoulder to wrist of the crossed arms, the coat sleeve, blue flannel shirt and undershirt were ripped to rags, while the arms themselves were terribly slashed and streaming blood.
Admittedly, the unfortunate human is the villainous and cruel Beauty Smith but despite Jack London, there has never been a recorded instance of an attack on a human by a healthy wolf or pack of wolves anywhere in North America. But why worry with facts—Call of the Wild and White Fang remain the greatest books of their kind.