“That’s the very point,” she argued warmly.  “Dogs are not eaten in California.  Why not leave him here?  He is happy.  He’ll never want for food—­you know that.  He’ll never suffer from cold and hardship.  Here all is softness and gentleness.  Neither the human nor nature is savage.  He will never know a whip-lash again.  And as for the weather—­why, it never snows here.”

“But it’s all-fired hot in summer, beggin’ your pardon,” Skiff Miller laughed.

“But you do not answer,” Madge continued passionately.  “What have you to offer him in that northland life?”

“Grub, when I’ve got it, and that’s most of the time,” came the answer.

“And the rest of the time?”

“No grub.”

“And the work?”

“Yes, plenty of work,” Miller blurted out impatiently.  “Work without end, an’ famine, an’ frost, an’ all the rest of the miseries—­that’s what he’ll get when he comes with me.  But he likes it.  He is used to it.  He knows that life.  He was born to it an’ brought up to it.  An’ you don’t know anything about it.  You don’t know what you’re talking about.  That’s where the dog belongs, and that’s where he’ll be happiest.”

“The dog doesn’t go,” Walt announced in a determined voice.  “So there is no need of further discussion.”

“What’s that?” Skiff Miller demanded, big brows lowering and an obstinate flush of blood reddening his forehead.

“I said the dog doesn’t go, and that settles it.  I don’t believe he’s your dog.  You may have seen him sometime.  You may even sometime have driven him for his owner.  But his obeying the ordinary driving commands of the Alaskan trail is no demonstration that he is yours.  Any dog in Alaska would obey you as he obeyed.  Besides, he is undoubtedly a valuable dog, as dogs go in Alaska, and that is sufficient explanation of your desire to get possession of him.  Anyway, you’ve got to prove property.”

Skiff Miller, cool and collected, the obstinate flush a trifle deeper on his forehead, his huge muscles bulging under the black cloth of his coat, carefully looked the poet up and down as though measuring the strength of his slenderness.

The Klondiker’s face took on a contemptuous expression as he said finally:  “I reckon there’s nothin’ in sight to prevent me takin’ the dog right here an’ now.”

Walt’s face reddened, and the striking-muscles of his arms and shoulders seemed to stiffen and grow tense.  His wife fluttered apprehensively into the breach.

“Maybe Mr. Miller is right,” she said.  “I am afraid that he is.  Wolf does seem to know him, and certainly he answers to the name of ‘Brown.’  He made 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.