“Enough!” Any such question could but prove abysmal ignorance of Sourdough’s quality.  The big husky was not scratched, and of fighting he could hardly be given enough while his heart continued to beat.  Before, he had been angered.  Before, he had loathed and hated Jan.  And now Jan had rolled him over on his back as though he were a helpless whelp.  Jan had glared menacingly at him, at Sourdough, while he, the acknowledged canine master and terror of that countryside, had all four feet in the air.  A flame of hatred surged about the husky’s heart.  His snarl as he bounded to his feet was truly awe-inspiring.  His writhen lips drew up and back crescent-wise over red gums, showing huge yellow fangs and an expression of most daunting ferocity.

In the next moment he tore a groove six inches long down Jan’s left shoulder, scooping out skin and fur as a machine saw might have done it; and in the same second he was away again, wolf-like, his steel muscles already contracting for the next attack.

Now Jan had no thought of fighting when he bowled Sourdough over.  His sole preoccupation had been the rescue of his little friend, Micky Doolan, from what looked like certain death.  Contact with Sourdough had greatly stirred the combatant blood in him, as had also the hated smell of the husky.  Even then a call from Dick Vaughan would have met with instant response from Jan.  But there was no Dick Vaughan in sight.  Sergeant Moore stood gazing eagerly, a little anxiously even, but with no hint of any thought of interfering with the meeting he had schemed to bring about.  O’Malley, clutching his terrier in his arms, was rather distractedly calling: 

“Come away in, Jan!  Drop it now, Jan!  Come in here, come in here, Jan!”

But O’Malley, after all, though an amiable person enough, and, as a friend of Dick’s, a man to be obeyed cheerfully enough in the ordinary way, yet was not Dick.  He was hardly a shadow of the sovereign.  And then came that fiery stroke that had opened a groove down Jan’s left shoulder.

After that, it is a moot point whether even Dick Vaughan’s voice would have served to penetrate the cloud of fury in which Jan moved.  He became very terrible in his wrath.  One saw less of the bloodhound and more, far more, of his sire, of royal Finn, the fighting wolfhound of the Tinnaburra ranges, in his splendid pose, in the upward, scimitar curve of his great tail, the rage in his red-hawed eyes, the vibrant defiance of his baying roar.

But he lacked as yet his sire’s inimitable fighting craft, just as he lacked entirely the lightning cunning of the half-wolf Sourdough.  And before he had touched the husky his sound shoulder had been grooved, and one of his ears badly torn.