["[Event happened on 2024-01-01 The user is reading a book]\n<User> Beauty Smith slipped the chain from his neck and stepped back. For once White Fang did not make an immediate attack. He stood still,\nears pricked forward, alert and curious, surveying the strange animal\nthat faced him. He had never seen such a dog before. Tim Keenan shoved\nthe bull-dog forward with a muttered \"Go to it.\" The animal waddled\ntoward the centre of the circle, short and squat and ungainly. He came\nto a stop and blinked across at White Fang. There were cries from the crowd of, \"Go to him, Cherokee! Sick 'm,\nCherokee! Eat 'm up!\" But Cherokee did not seem anxious to fight. He turned his head and\nblinked at the men who shouted, at the same time wagging his stump of a\ntail good-naturedly. He was not afraid, but merely lazy. Besides, it\ndid not seem to him that it was intended he should fight with the dog he\nsaw before him. He was not used to fighting with that kind of dog, and\nhe was waiting for them to bring on the real dog. Tim Keenan stepped in and bent over Cherokee, fondling him on both sides\nof the shoulders with hands that rubbed against the grain of the hair and\nthat made slight, pushing-forward movements. These were so many\nsuggestions. Also, their effect was irritating, for Cherokee began to\ngrowl, very softly, deep down in his throat. There was a correspondence\nin rhythm between the growls and the movements of the man's hands. The\ngrowl rose in the throat with the culmination of each forward-pushing\nmovement, and ebbed down to start up afresh with the beginning of the\nnext movement. The end of each movement was the accent of the rhythm,\nthe movement ending abruptly and the growling rising with a jerk. This was not without its effect on White Fang. The hair began to rise on\nhis neck and across the shoulders. Tim Keenan gave a final shove forward\nand stepped back again. As the impetus that carried Cherokee forward\ndied down, he continued to go forward of his own volition, in a swift,\nbow-legged run. Then White Fang struck. A cry of startled admiration\nwent up. He had covered the distance and gone in more like a cat than a\ndog; and with the same cat-like swiftness he had slashed with his fangs\nand leaped clear. The bull-dog was bleeding back of one ear from a rip in his thick neck. He gave no sign, did not even snarl, but turned and followed after White\nFang. The display on both sides, the quickness of the one and the\nsteadiness of the other, had excited the partisan spirit of the crowd,\nand the men were making new bets and increasing original bets. Again,\nand yet again, White Fang sprang in, slashed, and got away untouched, and\nstill his strange foe followed after him, without too great haste, not\nslowly, but deliberately and determinedly, in a businesslike sort of way. There was purpose in his method--something for him to do that he was\nintent upon doing and from which nothing could distract him. His whole demeanour, every action, was stamped with this purpose. It\npuzzled White Fang. Never had he seen such a dog. It had no hair\nprotection. It was soft, and bled easily. There was no thick mat of fur\nto baffle White Fang's teeth as they were often baffled by dogs of his\nown breed. Each time that his teeth struck they sank easily into the\nyielding flesh, while the animal did not seem able to defend itself. Another disconcerting thing was that it made no outcry, such as he had\nbeen accustomed to with the other dogs he had fought. Beyond a growl or\na grunt, the dog took its punishment silently. And never did it flag in\nits pursuit of him. Not that Cherokee was slow. He could turn and whirl swiftly enough, but\nWhite Fang was never there. Cherokee was puzzled, too. He had never\nfought before with a dog with which he could not close. The desire to\nclose had always been mutual. But here was a dog that kept at a\ndistance, dancing and dodging here and there and all about. And when it\ndid get its teeth into him, it did not hold on but let go instantly and\ndarted away again. But White Fang could not get at the soft underside of the throat. The\nbull-dog stood too short, while its massive jaws were an added\nprotection. White Fang darted in and out unscathed, while Cherokee's\nwounds increased. Both sides of his neck and head were ripped and\nslashed. He bled freely, but showed no signs of being disconcerted. He\ncontinued his plodding pursuit, though once, for the moment baffled, he\ncame to a full stop and blinked at the men who looked on, at the same\ntime wagging his stump of a tail as an expression of his willingness to\nfight. In that moment White Fang was in upon him and out, in passing ripping his\ntrimmed remnant of an ear. With a slight manifestation of anger,\nCherokee took up the pursuit again, running on the inside of the circle\nWhite Fang was making, and striving to fasten his deadly grip on White\nFang's throat. The bull-dog missed by a hair's-breadth, and cries of\npraise went up as White Fang doubled suddenly out of danger in the\nopposite direction. The time went by. White Fang still danced on, dodging and doubling,\nleaping in and out, and ever inflicting damage. And still the bull-dog,\nwith grim certitude, toiled after him. Sooner or later he would\naccomplish his purpose, get the grip that would win the battle. In the\nmeantime, he accepted all the punishment the other could deal him. His\ntufts of ears had become tassels, his neck and shoulders were slashed in\na score of places, and his very lips were cut and bleeding--all from\nthese lightning snaps that were beyond his foreseeing and guarding. Time and again White Fang had attempted to knock Cherokee off his feet;\nbut the difference in their height was too great. Cherokee was too\nsquat, too close to the ground. White Fang tried the trick once too\noften. The chance came in one of his quick doublings and\ncounter-circlings. He caught Cherokee with head turned away as he\nwhirled more slowly. His shoulder was exposed. White Fang drove in upon\nit: but his own shoulder was high above, while he struck with such force\nthat his momentum carried him on across over the other's body. For the\nfirst time in his fighting history, men saw White Fang lose his footing. His body turned a half-somersault in the air, and he would have landed on\nhis back had he not twisted, catlike, still in the air, in the effort to\nbring his feet to the earth. As it was, he struck heavily on his side. The next instant he was on his feet, but in that instant Cherokee's teeth\nclosed on his throat. It was not a good grip, being too low down toward the chest; but Cherokee\nheld on. White Fang sprang to his feet and tore wildly around, trying to\nshake off the bull-dog's body. It made him frantic, this clinging,\ndragging weight. It bound his movements, restricted his freedom. It was\nlike the trap, and all his instinct resented it and revolted against it. It was a mad revolt. For several minutes he was to all intents insane. The basic life that was in him took charge of him. The will to exist of\nhis body surged over him. He was dominated by this mere flesh-love of\nlife. All intelligence was gone. It was as though he had no brain. His\nreason was unseated by the blind yearning of the flesh to exist and move,\nat all hazards to move, to continue to move, for movement was the\nexpression of its existence. Round and round he went, whirling and turning and reversing, trying to\nshake off the fifty-pound weight that dragged at his throat. The bull-\ndog did little but keep his grip. Sometimes, and rarely, he managed to\nget his feet to the earth and for a moment to brace himself against White\nFang. But the next moment his footing would be lost and he would be\ndragging around in the whirl of one of White Fang's mad gyrations. Cherokee identified himself with his instinct. He knew that he was doing\nthe right thing by holding on, and there came to him certain blissful\nthrills of satisfaction. At such moments he even closed his eyes and\nallowed his body to be hurled hither and thither, willy-nilly, careless\nof any hurt that might thereby come to it. That did not count. The grip\nwas the thing, and the grip he kept. White Fang ceased only when he had tired himself out. He could do\nnothing, and he could not understand.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-01, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-02 The user is reading a book]\n<User> Never, in all his fighting, had\nthis thing happened. The dogs he had fought with did not fight that way. With them it was snap and slash and get away, snap and slash and get\naway. He lay partly on his side, panting for breath. Cherokee still\nholding his grip, urged against him, trying to get him over entirely on\nhis side. White Fang resisted, and he could feel the jaws shifting their\ngrip, slightly relaxing and coming together again in a chewing movement. Each shift brought the grip closer to his throat. The bull-dog's method\nwas to hold what he had, and when opportunity favoured to work in for\nmore. Opportunity favoured when White Fang remained quiet. When White\nFang struggled, Cherokee was content merely to hold on. The bulging back of Cherokee's neck was the only portion of his body that\nWhite Fang's teeth could reach. He got hold toward the base where the\nneck comes out from the shoulders; but he did not know the chewing method\nof fighting, nor were his jaws adapted to it. He spasmodically ripped\nand tore with his fangs for a space. Then a change in their position\ndiverted him. The bull-dog had managed to roll him over on his back, and\nstill hanging on to his throat, was on top of him. Like a cat, White\nFang bowed his hind-quarters in, and, with the feet digging into his\nenemy's abdomen above him, he began to claw with long tearing-strokes. Cherokee might well have been disembowelled had he not quickly pivoted on\nhis grip and got his body off of White Fang's and at right angles to it. There was no escaping that grip. It was like Fate itself, and as\ninexorable. Slowly it shifted up along the jugular. All that saved\nWhite Fang from death was the loose skin of his neck and the thick fur\nthat covered it. This served to form a large roll in Cherokee's mouth,\nthe fur of which well-nigh defied his teeth. But bit by bit, whenever\nthe chance offered, he was getting more of the loose skin and fur in his\nmouth. The result was that he was slowly throttling White Fang. The\nlatter's breath was drawn with greater and greater difficulty as the\nmoments went by. It began to look as though the battle were over. The backers of Cherokee\nwaxed jubilant and offered ridiculous odds. White Fang's backers were\ncorrespondingly depressed, and refused bets of ten to one and twenty to\none, though one man was rash enough to close a wager of fifty to one. This man was Beauty Smith. He took a step into the ring and pointed his\nfinger at White Fang. Then he began to laugh derisively and scornfully. This produced the desired effect. White Fang went wild with rage. He\ncalled up his reserves of strength, and gained his feet. As he struggled\naround the ring, the fifty pounds of his foe ever dragging on his throat,\nhis anger passed on into panic. The basic life of him dominated him\nagain, and his intelligence fled before the will of his flesh to live. Round and round and back again, stumbling and falling and rising, even\nuprearing at times on his hind-legs and lifting his foe clear of the\nearth, he struggled vainly to shake off the clinging death. At last he fell, toppling backward, exhausted; and the bull-dog promptly\nshifted his grip, getting in closer, mangling more and more of the fur-\nfolded flesh, throttling White Fang more severely than ever. Shouts of\napplause went up for the victor, and there were many cries of \"Cherokee!\" \"Cherokee!\" To this Cherokee responded by vigorous wagging of the stump\nof his tail. But the clamour of approval did not distract him. There\nwas no sympathetic relation between his tail and his massive jaws. The\none might wag, but the others held their terrible grip on White Fang's\nthroat. It was at this time that a diversion came to the spectators. There was a\njingle of bells. Dog-mushers' cries were heard. Everybody, save Beauty\nSmith, looked apprehensively, the fear of the police strong upon them. But they saw, up the trail, and not down, two men running with sled and\ndogs. They were evidently coming down the creek from some prospecting\ntrip. At sight of the crowd they stopped their dogs and came over and\njoined it, curious to see the cause of the excitement. The dog-musher\nwore a moustache, but the other, a taller and younger man, was smooth-\nshaven, his skin rosy from the pounding of his blood and the running in\nthe frosty air. White Fang had practically ceased struggling. Now and again he resisted\nspasmodically and to no purpose. He could get little air, and that\nlittle grew less and less under the merciless grip that ever tightened. In spite of his armour of fur, the great vein of his throat would have\nlong since been torn open, had not the first grip of the bull-dog been so\nlow down as to be practically on the chest. It had taken Cherokee a long\ntime to shift that grip upward, and this had also tended further to clog\nhis jaws with fur and skin-fold. In the meantime, the abysmal brute in Beauty Smith had been rising into\nhis brain and mastering the small bit of sanity that he possessed at\nbest. When he saw White Fang's eyes beginning to glaze, he knew beyond\ndoubt that the fight was lost. Then he broke loose. He sprang upon\nWhite Fang and began savagely to kick him. There were hisses from the\ncrowd and cries of protest, but that was all. While this went on, and\nBeauty Smith continued to kick White Fang, there was a commotion in the\ncrowd. The tall young newcomer was forcing his way through, shouldering\nmen right and left without ceremony or gentleness. When he broke through\ninto the ring, Beauty Smith was just in the act of delivering another\nkick. All his weight was on one foot, and he was in a state of unstable\nequilibrium. At that moment the newcomer's fist landed a smashing blow\nfull in his face. Beauty Smith's remaining leg left the ground, and his\nwhole body seemed to lift into the air as he turned over backward and\nstruck the snow. The newcomer turned upon the crowd. \"You cowards!\" he cried. \"You beasts!\" He was in a rage himself--a sane rage. His grey eyes seemed metallic and\nsteel-like as they flashed upon the crowd. Beauty Smith regained his\nfeet and came toward him, sniffling and cowardly. The new-comer did not\nunderstand. He did not know how abject a coward the other was, and\nthought he was coming back intent on fighting. So, with a \"You beast!\" he smashed Beauty Smith over backward with a second blow in the face. Beauty Smith decided that the snow was the safest place for him, and lay\nwhere he had fallen, making no effort to get up. \"Come on, Matt, lend a hand,\" the newcomer called the dog-musher, who had\nfollowed him into the ring. Both men bent over the dogs. Matt took hold of White Fang, ready to pull\nwhen Cherokee's jaws should be loosened. This the younger man\nendeavoured to accomplish by clutching the bulldog's jaws in his hands\nand trying to spread them. It was a vain undertaking. As he pulled and\ntugged and wrenched, he kept exclaiming with every expulsion of breath,\n\"Beasts!\" The crowd began to grow unruly, and some of the men were protesting\nagainst the spoiling of the sport; but they were silenced when the\nnewcomer lifted his head from his work for a moment and glared at them. \"You damn beasts!\" he finally exploded, and went back to his task. \"It's no use, Mr. Scott, you can't break 'm apart that way,\" Matt said at\nlast. The pair paused and surveyed the locked dogs. \"Ain't bleedin' much,\" Matt announced. \"Ain't got all the way in yet.\" \"But he's liable to any moment,\" Scott answered. \"There, did you see\nthat! He shifted his grip in a bit.\" The younger man's excitement and apprehension for White Fang was growing. He struck Cherokee about the head savagely again and again. But that did\nnot loosen the jaws. Cherokee wagged the stump of his tail in\nadvertisement that he understood the meaning of the blows, but that he\nknew he was himself in the right and only doing his duty by keeping his\ngrip. \"Won't some of you help?\" Scott cried desperately at the crowd. But no help was offered. Instead, the crowd began sarcastically to cheer\nhim on and showered him with facetious advice. \"You'll have to get a pry,\" Matt counselled.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-02, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-04 The user is reading a book]\n<User> The other reached into the holster at his hip, drew his revolver, and\ntried to thrust its muzzle between the bull-dog's jaws. He shoved, and\nshoved hard, till the grating of the steel against the locked teeth could\nbe distinctly heard. Both men were on their knees, bending over the\ndogs. Tim Keenan strode into the ring. He paused beside Scott and\ntouched him on the shoulder, saying ominously:\n\n\"Don't break them teeth, stranger.\" \"Then I'll break his neck,\" Scott retorted, continuing his shoving and\nwedging with the revolver muzzle. \"I said don't break them teeth,\" the faro-dealer repeated more ominously\nthan before. But if it was a bluff he intended, it did not work. Scott never desisted\nfrom his efforts, though he looked up coolly and asked:\n\n\"Your dog?\" The faro-dealer grunted. \"Then get in here and break this grip.\" \"Well, stranger,\" the other drawled irritatingly, \"I don't mind telling\nyou that's something I ain't worked out for myself. I don't know how to\nturn the trick.\" \"Then get out of the way,\" was the reply, \"and don't bother me. I'm\nbusy.\" Tim Keenan continued standing over him, but Scott took no further notice\nof his presence. He had managed to get the muzzle in between the jaws on\none side, and was trying to get it out between the jaws on the other\nside. This accomplished, he pried gently and carefully, loosening the\njaws a bit at a time, while Matt, a bit at a time, extricated White\nFang's mangled neck. \"Stand by to receive your dog,\" was Scott's peremptory order to\nCherokee's owner. The faro-dealer stooped down obediently and got a firm hold on Cherokee. \"Now!\" Scott warned, giving the final pry. The dogs were drawn apart, the bull-dog struggling vigorously. \"Take him away,\" Scott commanded, and Tim Keenan dragged Cherokee back\ninto the crowd. White Fang made several ineffectual efforts to get up. Once he gained\nhis feet, but his legs were too weak to sustain him, and he slowly wilted\nand sank back into the snow. His eyes were half closed, and the surface\nof them was glassy. His jaws were apart, and through them the tongue\nprotruded, draggled and limp. To all appearances he looked like a dog\nthat had been strangled to death. Matt examined him. \"Just about all in,\" he announced; \"but he's breathin' all right.\" Beauty Smith had regained his feet and come over to look at White Fang. \"Matt, how much is a good sled-dog worth?\" Scott asked. The dog-musher, still on his knees and stooped over White Fang,\ncalculated for a moment. \"Three hundred dollars,\" he answered. \"And how much for one that's all chewed up like this one?\" Scott asked,\nnudging White Fang with his foot. \"Half of that,\" was the dog-musher's judgment. Scott turned upon Beauty\nSmith. \"Did you hear, Mr. Beast? I'm going to take your dog from you, and I'm\ngoing to give you a hundred and fifty for him.\" He opened his pocket-book and counted out the bills. Beauty Smith put his hands behind his back, refusing to touch the\nproffered money. \"I ain't a-sellin',\" he said. \"Oh, yes you are,\" the other assured him. \"Because I'm buying. Here's\nyour money. The dog's mine.\" Beauty Smith, his hands still behind him, began to back away. Scott sprang toward him, drawing his fist back to strike. Beauty Smith\ncowered down in anticipation of the blow. \"I've got my rights,\" he whimpered. \"You've forfeited your rights to own that dog,\" was the rejoinder. \"Are\nyou going to take the money? or do I have to hit you again?\" \"All right,\" Beauty Smith spoke up with the alacrity of fear. \"But I\ntake the money under protest,\" he added. \"The dog's a mint. I ain't a-\ngoin' to be robbed. A man's got his rights.\" \"Correct,\" Scott answered, passing the money over to him. \"A man's got\nhis rights. But you're not a man. You're a beast.\" \"Wait till I get back to Dawson,\" Beauty Smith threatened. \"I'll have\nthe law on you.\" \"If you open your mouth when you get back to Dawson, I'll have you run\nout of town. Understand?\" Beauty Smith replied with a grunt. \"Understand?\" the other thundered with abrupt fierceness. \"Yes,\" Beauty Smith grunted, shrinking away. \"Yes what?\" \"Yes, sir,\" Beauty Smith snarled. \"Look out! He'll bite!\" some one shouted, and a guffaw of laughter went\nup. Scott turned his back on him, and returned to help the dog-musher, who\nwas working over White Fang. Some of the men were already departing; others stood in groups, looking\non and talking. Tim Keenan joined one of the groups. \"Who's that mug?\" he asked. \"Weedon Scott,\" some one answered. \"And who in hell is Weedon Scott?\" the faro-dealer demanded. \"Oh, one of them crackerjack minin' experts. He's in with all the big\nbugs. If you want to keep out of trouble, you'll steer clear of him,\nthat's my talk. He's all hunky with the officials. The Gold\nCommissioner's a special pal of his.\" \"I thought he must be somebody,\" was the faro-dealer's comment. \"That's\nwhy I kept my hands offen him at the start.\" \"It's hopeless,\" Weedon Scott confessed. He sat on the step of his cabin and stared at the dog-musher, who\nresponded with a shrug that was equally hopeless. Together they looked at White Fang at the end of his stretched chain,\nbristling, snarling, ferocious, straining to get at the sled-dogs. Having\nreceived sundry lessons from Matt, said lessons being imparted by means\nof a club, the sled-dogs had learned to leave White Fang alone; and even\nthen they were lying down at a distance, apparently oblivious of his\nexistence. \"It's a wolf and there's no taming it,\" Weedon Scott announced. \"Oh, I don't know about that,\" Matt objected. \"Might be a lot of dog in\n'm, for all you can tell. But there's one thing I know sure, an' that\nthere's no gettin' away from.\" The dog-musher paused and nodded his head confidentially at Moosehide\nMountain. \"Well, don't be a miser with what you know,\" Scott said sharply, after\nwaiting a suitable length of time. \"Spit it out. What is it?\" The dog-musher indicated White Fang with a backward thrust of his thumb. \"Wolf or dog, it's all the same--he's ben tamed 'ready.\" \"No!\" \"I tell you yes, an' broke to harness. Look close there. D'ye see them\nmarks across the chest?\" \"You're right, Matt. He was a sled-dog before Beauty Smith got hold of\nhim.\" \"And there's not much reason against his bein' a sled-dog again.\" \"What d'ye think?\" Scott queried eagerly. Then the hope died down as he\nadded, shaking his head, \"We've had him two weeks now, and if anything\nhe's wilder than ever at the present moment.\" \"Give 'm a chance,\" Matt counselled. \"Turn 'm loose for a spell.\" The other looked at him incredulously. \"Yes,\" Matt went on, \"I know you've tried to, but you didn't take a\nclub.\" \"You try it then.\" The dog-musher secured a club and went over to the chained animal. White\nFang watched the club after the manner of a caged lion watching the whip\nof its trainer. \"See 'm keep his eye on that club,\" Matt said. \"That's a good sign. He's\nno fool. Don't dast tackle me so long as I got that club handy. He's\nnot clean crazy, sure.\" As the man's hand approached his neck, White Fang bristled and snarled\nand crouched down. But while he eyed the approaching hand, he at the\nsame time contrived to keep track of the club in the other hand,\nsuspended threateningly above him. Matt unsnapped the chain from the\ncollar and stepped back. White Fang could scarcely realise that he was free. Many months had gone\nby since he passed into the possession of Beauty Smith, and in all that\nperiod he had never known a moment of freedom except at the times he had\nbeen loosed to fight with other dogs. Immediately after such fights he\nhad always been imprisoned again. He did not know what to make of it. Perhaps some new devilry of the gods\nwas about to be perpetrated on him.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-04, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-06 The user is reading a book]\n<User> He walked slowly and cautiously,\nprepared to be assailed at any moment. He did not know what to do, it\nwas all so unprecedented. He took the precaution to sheer off from the\ntwo watching gods, and walked carefully to the corner of the cabin. Nothing happened. He was plainly perplexed, and he came back again,\npausing a dozen feet away and regarding the two men intently. \"Won't he run away?\" his new owner asked. Matt shrugged his shoulders. \"Got to take a gamble. Only way to find\nout is to find out.\" \"Poor devil,\" Scott murmured pityingly. \"What he needs is some show of\nhuman kindness,\" he added, turning and going into the cabin. He came out with a piece of meat, which he tossed to White Fang. He\nsprang away from it, and from a distance studied it suspiciously. \"Hi-yu, Major!\" Matt shouted warningly, but too late. Major had made a spring for the meat. At the instant his jaws closed on\nit, White Fang struck him. He was overthrown. Matt rushed in, but\nquicker than he was White Fang. Major staggered to his feet, but the\nblood spouting from his throat reddened the snow in a widening path. \"It's too bad, but it served him right,\" Scott said hastily. But Matt's foot had already started on its way to kick White Fang. There\nwas a leap, a flash of teeth, a sharp exclamation. White Fang, snarling\nfiercely, scrambled backward for several yards, while Matt stooped and\ninvestigated his leg. \"He got me all right,\" he announced, pointing to the torn trousers and\nundercloths, and the growing stain of red. \"I told you it was hopeless, Matt,\" Scott said in a discouraged voice. \"I've thought about it off and on, while not wanting to think of it. But\nwe've come to it now. It's the only thing to do.\" As he talked, with reluctant movements he drew his revolver, threw open\nthe cylinder, and assured himself of its contents. \"Look here, Mr. Scott,\" Matt objected; \"that dog's ben through hell. You\ncan't expect 'm to come out a white an' shinin' angel. Give 'm time.\" \"Look at Major,\" the other rejoined. The dog-musher surveyed the stricken dog. He had sunk down on the snow\nin the circle of his blood and was plainly in the last gasp. \"Served 'm right. You said so yourself, Mr. Scott. He tried to take\nWhite Fang's meat, an' he's dead-O. That was to be expected. I wouldn't\ngive two whoops in hell for a dog that wouldn't fight for his own meat.\" \"But look at yourself, Matt. It's all right about the dogs, but we must\ndraw the line somewhere.\" \"Served me right,\" Matt argued stubbornly. \"What'd I want to kick 'm\nfor? You said yourself that he'd done right. Then I had no right to\nkick 'm.\" \"It would be a mercy to kill him,\" Scott insisted. \"He's untamable.\" \"Now look here, Mr. Scott, give the poor devil a fightin' chance. He\nain't had no chance yet. He's just come through hell, an' this is the\nfirst time he's ben loose. Give 'm a fair chance, an' if he don't\ndeliver the goods, I'll kill 'm myself. There!\" \"God knows I don't want to kill him or have him killed,\" Scott answered,\nputting away the revolver. \"We'll let him run loose and see what\nkindness can do for him. And here's a try at it.\" He walked over to White Fang and began talking to him gently and\nsoothingly. \"Better have a club handy,\" Matt warned. Scott shook his head and went on trying to win White Fang's confidence. White Fang was suspicious. Something was impending. He had killed this\ngod's dog, bitten his companion god, and what else was to be expected\nthan some terrible punishment? But in the face of it he was indomitable. He bristled and showed his teeth, his eyes vigilant, his whole body wary\nand prepared for anything. The god had no club, so he suffered him to\napproach quite near. The god's hand had come out and was descending upon\nhis head. White Fang shrank together and grew tense as he crouched under\nit. Here was danger, some treachery or something. He knew the hands of\nthe gods, their proved mastery, their cunning to hurt. Besides, there\nwas his old antipathy to being touched. He snarled more menacingly,\ncrouched still lower, and still the hand descended. He did not want to\nbite the hand, and he endured the peril of it until his instinct surged\nup in him, mastering him with its insatiable yearning for life. Weedon Scott had believed that he was quick enough to avoid any snap or\nslash. But he had yet to learn the remarkable quickness of White Fang,\nwho struck with the certainty and swiftness of a coiled snake. Scott cried out sharply with surprise, catching his torn hand and holding\nit tightly in his other hand. Matt uttered a great oath and sprang to\nhis side. White Fang crouched down, and backed away, bristling, showing\nhis fangs, his eyes malignant with menace. Now he could expect a beating\nas fearful as any he had received from Beauty Smith. \"Here! What are you doing?\" Scott cried suddenly. Matt had dashed into the cabin and come out with a rifle. \"Nothin',\" he said slowly, with a careless calmness that was assumed,\n\"only goin' to keep that promise I made. I reckon it's up to me to kill\n'm as I said I'd do.\" \"No you don't!\" \"Yes I do. Watch me.\" As Matt had pleaded for White Fang when he had been bitten, it was now\nWeedon Scott's turn to plead. \"You said to give him a chance. Well, give it to him. We've only just\nstarted, and we can't quit at the beginning. It served me right, this\ntime. And--look at him!\" White Fang, near the corner of the cabin and forty feet away, was\nsnarling with blood-curdling viciousness, not at Scott, but at the dog-\nmusher. \"Well, I'll be everlastingly gosh-swoggled!\" was the dog-musher's\nexpression of astonishment. \"Look at the intelligence of him,\" Scott went on hastily. \"He knows the\nmeaning of firearms as well as you do. He's got intelligence and we've\ngot to give that intelligence a chance. Put up the gun.\" \"All right, I'm willin',\" Matt agreed, leaning the rifle against the\nwoodpile. \"But will you look at that!\" he exclaimed the next moment. White Fang had quieted down and ceased snarling. \"This is worth\ninvestigatin'. Watch.\" Matt, reached for the rifle, and at the same moment White Fang snarled. He stepped away from the rifle, and White Fang's lifted lips descended,\ncovering his teeth. \"Now, just for fun.\" Matt took the rifle and began slowly to raise it to his shoulder. White\nFang's snarling began with the movement, and increased as the movement\napproached its culmination. But the moment before the rifle came to a\nlevel on him, he leaped sidewise behind the corner of the cabin. Matt\nstood staring along the sights at the empty space of snow which had been\noccupied by White Fang. The dog-musher put the rifle down solemnly, then turned and looked at his\nemployer. \"I agree with you, Mr. Scott. That dog's too intelligent to kill.\" As White Fang watched Weedon Scott approach, he bristled and snarled to\nadvertise that he would not submit to punishment. Twenty-four hours had\npassed since he had slashed open the hand that was now bandaged and held\nup by a sling to keep the blood out of it. In the past White Fang had\nexperienced delayed punishments, and he apprehended that such a one was\nabout to befall him. How could it be otherwise? He had committed what\nwas to him sacrilege, sunk his fangs into the holy flesh of a god, and of\na white-skinned superior god at that. In the nature of things, and of\nintercourse with gods, something terrible awaited him. The god sat down several feet away. White Fang could see nothing\ndangerous in that. When the gods administered punishment they stood on\ntheir legs. Besides, this god had no club, no whip, no firearm. And\nfurthermore, he himself was free. No chain nor stick bound him. He\ncould escape into safety while the god was scrambling to his feet. In\nthe meantime he would wait and see.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-06, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-09 The user is reading a book]\n<User> The god remained quiet, made no movement; and White Fang's snarl slowly\ndwindled to a growl that ebbed down in his throat and ceased. Then the\ngod spoke, and at the first sound of his voice, the hair rose on White\nFang's neck and the growl rushed up in his throat. But the god made no\nhostile movement, and went on calmly talking. For a time White Fang\ngrowled in unison with him, a correspondence of rhythm being established\nbetween growl and voice. But the god talked on interminably. He talked\nto White Fang as White Fang had never been talked to before. He talked\nsoftly and soothingly, with a gentleness that somehow, somewhere, touched\nWhite Fang. In spite of himself and all the pricking warnings of his\ninstinct, White Fang began to have confidence in this god. He had a\nfeeling of security that was belied by all his experience with men. After a long time, the god got up and went into the cabin. White Fang\nscanned him apprehensively when he came out. He had neither whip nor\nclub nor weapon. Nor was his uninjured hand behind his back hiding\nsomething. He sat down as before, in the same spot, several feet away. He held out a small piece of meat. White Fang pricked his ears and\ninvestigated it suspiciously, managing to look at the same time both at\nthe meat and the god, alert for any overt act, his body tense and ready\nto spring away at the first sign of hostility. Still the punishment delayed. The god merely held near to his nose a\npiece of meat. And about the meat there seemed nothing wrong. Still\nWhite Fang suspected; and though the meat was proffered to him with short\ninviting thrusts of the hand, he refused to touch it. The gods were all-\nwise, and there was no telling what masterful treachery lurked behind\nthat apparently harmless piece of meat. In past experience, especially\nin dealing with squaws, meat and punishment had often been disastrously\nrelated. In the end, the god tossed the meat on the snow at White Fang's feet. He\nsmelled the meat carefully; but he did not look at it. While he smelled\nit he kept his eyes on the god. Nothing happened. He took the meat into\nhis mouth and swallowed it. Still nothing happened. The god was\nactually offering him another piece of meat. Again he refused to take it\nfrom the hand, and again it was tossed to him. This was repeated a\nnumber of times. But there came a time when the god refused to toss it. He kept it in his hand and steadfastly proffered it. The meat was good meat, and White Fang was hungry. Bit by bit,\ninfinitely cautious, he approached the hand. At last the time came that\nhe decided to eat the meat from the hand. He never took his eyes from\nthe god, thrusting his head forward with ears flattened back and hair\ninvoluntarily rising and cresting on his neck. Also a low growl rumbled\nin his throat as warning that he was not to be trifled with. He ate the\nmeat, and nothing happened. Piece by piece, he ate all the meat, and\nnothing happened. Still the punishment delayed. He licked his chops and waited. The god went on talking. In his voice\nwas kindness--something of which White Fang had no experience whatever. And within him it aroused feelings which he had likewise never\nexperienced before. He was aware of a certain strange satisfaction, as\nthough some need were being gratified, as though some void in his being\nwere being filled. Then again came the prod of his instinct and the\nwarning of past experience. The gods were ever crafty, and they had\nunguessed ways of attaining their ends. Ah, he had thought so! There it came now, the god's hand, cunning to\nhurt, thrusting out at him, descending upon his head. But the god went\non talking. His voice was soft and soothing. In spite of the menacing\nhand, the voice inspired confidence. And in spite of the assuring voice,\nthe hand inspired distrust. White Fang was torn by conflicting feelings,\nimpulses. It seemed he would fly to pieces, so terrible was the control\nhe was exerting, holding together by an unwonted indecision the counter-\nforces that struggled within him for mastery. He compromised. He snarled and bristled and flattened his ears. But he\nneither snapped nor sprang away. The hand descended. Nearer and nearer\nit came. It touched the ends of his upstanding hair. He shrank down\nunder it. It followed down after him, pressing more closely against him. Shrinking, almost shivering, he still managed to hold himself together. It was a torment, this hand that touched him and violated his instinct. He could not forget in a day all the evil that had been wrought him at\nthe hands of men. But it was the will of the god, and he strove to\nsubmit. The hand lifted and descended again in a patting, caressing movement. This continued, but every time the hand lifted, the hair lifted under it. And every time the hand descended, the ears flattened down and a\ncavernous growl surged in his throat. White Fang growled and growled\nwith insistent warning. By this means he announced that he was prepared\nto retaliate for any hurt he might receive. There was no telling when\nthe god's ulterior motive might be disclosed. At any moment that soft,\nconfidence-inspiring voice might break forth in a roar of wrath, that\ngentle and caressing hand transform itself into a vice-like grip to hold\nhim helpless and administer punishment. But the god talked on softly, and ever the hand rose and fell with non-\nhostile pats. White Fang experienced dual feelings. It was distasteful\nto his instinct. It restrained him, opposed the will of him toward\npersonal liberty. And yet it was not physically painful. On the\ncontrary, it was even pleasant, in a physical way. The patting movement\nslowly and carefully changed to a rubbing of the ears about their bases,\nand the physical pleasure even increased a little. Yet he continued to\nfear, and he stood on guard, expectant of unguessed evil, alternately\nsuffering and enjoying as one feeling or the other came uppermost and\nswayed him. \"Well, I'll be gosh-swoggled!\" So spoke Matt, coming out of the cabin, his sleeves rolled up, a pan of\ndirty dish-water in his hands, arrested in the act of emptying the pan by\nthe sight of Weedon Scott patting White Fang. At the instant his voice broke the silence, White Fang leaped back,\nsnarling savagely at him. Matt regarded his employer with grieved disapproval. \"If you don't mind my expressin' my feelin's, Mr. Scott, I'll make free\nto say you're seventeen kinds of a damn fool an' all of 'em different,\nan' then some.\" Weedon Scott smiled with a superior air, gained his feet, and walked over\nto White Fang. He talked soothingly to him, but not for long, then\nslowly put out his hand, rested it on White Fang's head, and resumed the\ninterrupted patting. White Fang endured it, keeping his eyes fixed\nsuspiciously, not upon the man that patted him, but upon the man that\nstood in the doorway. \"You may be a number one, tip-top minin' expert, all right all right,\"\nthe dog-musher delivered himself oracularly, \"but you missed the chance\nof 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\naway from under the hand that was caressing his head and the back of his\nneck with long, soothing strokes. It was the beginning of the end for White Fang--the ending of the old\nlife and the reign of hate. A new and incomprehensibly fairer life was\ndawning. It required much thinking and endless patience on the part of\nWeedon Scott to accomplish this. And on the part of White Fang it\nrequired nothing less than a revolution. He had to ignore the urges and\npromptings of instinct and reason, defy experience, give the lie to life\nitself. Life, as he had known it, not only had had no place in it for much that\nhe now did; but all the currents had gone counter to those to which he\nnow abandoned himself. In short, when all things were considered, he had\nto achieve an orientation far vaster than the one he had achieved at the\ntime he came voluntarily in from the Wild and accepted Grey Beaver as his\nlord. At that time he was a mere puppy, soft from the making, without\nform, ready for the thumb of circumstance to begin its work upon him. But\nnow it was different. The thumb of circumstance had done its work only\ntoo well.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-09, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-11 The user is reading a book]\n<User> By it he had been formed and hardened into the Fighting Wolf,\nfierce and implacable, unloving and unlovable. To accomplish the change\nwas like a reflux of being, and this when the plasticity of youth was no\nlonger his; when the fibre of him had become tough and knotty; when the\nwarp and the woof of him had made of him an adamantine texture, harsh and\nunyielding; when the face of his spirit had become iron and all his\ninstincts and axioms had crystallised into set rules, cautions, dislikes,\nand desires. Yet again, in this new orientation, it was the thumb of circumstance that\npressed and prodded him, softening that which had become hard and\nremoulding it into fairer form. Weedon Scott was in truth this thumb. He\nhad gone to the roots of White Fang's nature, and with kindness touched\nto life potencies that had languished and well-nigh perished. One such\npotency was _love_. It took the place of _like_, which latter had been\nthe highest feeling that thrilled him in his intercourse with the gods. But this love did not come in a day. It began with _like_ and out of it\nslowly developed. White Fang did not run away, though he was allowed to\nremain loose, because he liked this new god. This was certainly better\nthan the life he had lived in the cage of Beauty Smith, and it was\nnecessary that he should have some god. The lordship of man was a need\nof his nature. The seal of his dependence on man had been set upon him\nin that early day when he turned his back on the Wild and crawled to Grey\nBeaver's feet to receive the expected beating. This seal had been\nstamped upon him again, and ineradicably, on his second return from the\nWild, when the long famine was over and there was fish once more in the\nvillage of Grey Beaver. And so, because he needed a god and because he preferred Weedon Scott to\nBeauty Smith, White Fang remained. In acknowledgment of fealty, he\nproceeded to take upon himself the guardianship of his master's property. He prowled about the cabin while the sled-dogs slept, and the first night-\nvisitor to the cabin fought him off with a club until Weedon Scott came\nto the rescue. But White Fang soon learned to differentiate between\nthieves and honest men, to appraise the true value of step and carriage. The man who travelled, loud-stepping, the direct line to the cabin door,\nhe let alone--though he watched him vigilantly until the door opened and\nhe received the endorsement of the master. But the man who went softly,\nby circuitous ways, peering with caution, seeking after secrecy--that was\nthe man who received no suspension of judgment from White Fang, and who\nwent away abruptly, hurriedly, and without dignity. Weedon Scott had set himself the task of redeeming White Fang--or rather,\nof redeeming mankind from the wrong it had done White Fang. It was a\nmatter of principle and conscience. He felt that the ill done White Fang\nwas a debt incurred by man and that it must be paid. So he went out of\nhis way to be especially kind to the Fighting Wolf. Each day he made it\na point to caress and pet White Fang, and to do it at length. At first suspicious and hostile, White Fang grew to like this petting. But there was one thing that he never outgrew--his growling. Growl he\nwould, from the moment the petting began till it ended. But it was a\ngrowl with a new note in it. A stranger could not hear this note, and to\nsuch a stranger the growling of White Fang was an exhibition of\nprimordial savagery, nerve-racking and blood-curdling. But White Fang's\nthroat had become harsh-fibred from the making of ferocious sounds\nthrough the many years since his first little rasp of anger in the lair\nof his cubhood, and he could not soften the sounds of that throat now to\nexpress the gentleness he felt. Nevertheless, Weedon Scott's ear and\nsympathy were fine enough to catch the new note all but drowned in the\nfierceness--the note that was the faintest hint of a croon of content and\nthat none but he could hear. As the days went by, the evolution of _like_ into _love_ was accelerated. White Fang himself began to grow aware of it, though in his consciousness\nhe knew not what love was. It manifested itself to him as a void in his\nbeing--a hungry, aching, yearning void that clamoured to be filled. It\nwas a pain and an unrest; and it received easement only by the touch of\nthe new god's presence. At such times love was joy to him, a wild, keen-\nthrilling satisfaction. But when away from his god, the pain and the\nunrest returned; the void in him sprang up and pressed against him with\nits emptiness, and the hunger gnawed and gnawed unceasingly. White Fang was in the process of finding himself. In spite of the\nmaturity of his years and of the savage rigidity of the mould that had\nformed him, his nature was undergoing an expansion. There was a\nburgeoning within him of strange feelings and unwonted impulses. His old\ncode of conduct was changing. In the past he had liked comfort and\nsurcease from pain, disliked discomfort and pain, and he had adjusted his\nactions accordingly. But now it was different. Because of this new\nfeeling within him, he ofttimes elected discomfort and pain for the sake\nof his god. Thus, in the early morning, instead of roaming and foraging,\nor lying in a sheltered nook, he would wait for hours on the cheerless\ncabin-stoop for a sight of the god's face. At night, when the god\nreturned home, White Fang would leave the warm sleeping-place he had\nburrowed in the snow in order to receive the friendly snap of fingers and\nthe word of greeting. Meat, even meat itself, he would forego to be with\nhis god, to receive a caress from him or to accompany him down into the\ntown. _Like_ had been replaced by _love_. And love was the plummet dropped\ndown into the deeps of him where like had never gone. And responsive out\nof his deeps had come the new thing--love. That which was given unto him\ndid he return. This was a god indeed, a love-god, a warm and radiant\ngod, in whose light White Fang's nature expanded as a flower expands\nunder the sun. But White Fang was not demonstrative. He was too old, too firmly\nmoulded, to become adept at expressing himself in new ways. He was too\nself-possessed, too strongly poised in his own isolation. Too long had\nhe cultivated reticence, aloofness, and moroseness. He had never barked\nin his life, and he could not now learn to bark a welcome when his god\napproached. He was never in the way, never extravagant nor foolish in\nthe expression of his love. He never ran to meet his god. He waited at\na distance; but he always waited, was always there. His love partook of\nthe nature of worship, dumb, inarticulate, a silent adoration. Only by\nthe steady regard of his eyes did he express his love, and by the\nunceasing following with his eyes of his god's every movement. Also, at\ntimes, when his god looked at him and spoke to him, he betrayed an\nawkward self-consciousness, caused by the struggle of his love to express\nitself and his physical inability to express it. He learned to adjust himself in many ways to his new mode of life. It\nwas borne in upon him that he must let his master's dogs alone. Yet his\ndominant nature asserted itself, and he had first to thrash them into an\nacknowledgment of his superiority and leadership. This accomplished, he\nhad little trouble with them. They gave trail to him when he came and\nwent or walked among them, and when he asserted his will they obeyed. In the same way, he came to tolerate Matt--as a possession of his master. His master rarely fed him. Matt did that, it was his business; yet White\nFang divined that it was his master's food he ate and that it was his\nmaster who thus fed him vicariously. Matt it was who tried to put him\ninto the harness and make him haul sled with the other dogs. But Matt\nfailed. It was not until Weedon Scott put the harness on White Fang and\nworked him, that he understood. He took it as his master's will that\nMatt should drive him and work him just as he drove and worked his\nmaster's other dogs. Different from the Mackenzie toboggans were the Klondike sleds with\nrunners under them. And different was the method of driving the dogs. There was no fan-formation of the team.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-11, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-13 The user is reading a book]\n<User> The dogs worked in single file,\none behind another, hauling on double traces. And here, in the Klondike,\nthe leader was indeed the leader. The wisest as well as strongest dog\nwas the leader, and the team obeyed him and feared him. That White Fang\nshould quickly gain this post was inevitable. He could not be satisfied\nwith less, as Matt learned after much inconvenience and trouble. White\nFang picked out the post for himself, and Matt backed his judgment with\nstrong language after the experiment had been tried. But, though he\nworked in the sled in the day, White Fang did not forego the guarding of\nhis master's property in the night. Thus he was on duty all the time,\never vigilant and faithful, the most valuable of all the dogs. \"Makin' free to spit out what's in me,\" Matt said one day, \"I beg to\nstate that you was a wise guy all right when you paid the price you did\nfor that dog. You clean swindled Beauty Smith on top of pushin' his face\nin with your fist.\" A recrudescence of anger glinted in Weedon Scott's grey eyes, and he\nmuttered savagely, \"The beast!\" In the late spring a great trouble came to White Fang. Without warning,\nthe love-master disappeared. There had been warning, but White Fang was\nunversed in such things and did not understand the packing of a grip. He\nremembered afterwards that his packing had preceded the master's\ndisappearance; but at the time he suspected nothing. That night he\nwaited for the master to return. At midnight the chill wind that blew\ndrove him to shelter at the rear of the cabin. There he drowsed, only\nhalf asleep, his ears keyed for the first sound of the familiar step. But, at two in the morning, his anxiety drove him out to the cold front\nstoop, where he crouched, and waited. But no master came. In the morning the door opened and Matt stepped\noutside. White Fang gazed at him wistfully. There was no common speech\nby which he might learn what he wanted to know. The days came and went,\nbut never the master. White Fang, who had never known sickness in his\nlife, became sick. He became very sick, so sick that Matt was finally\ncompelled to bring him inside the cabin. Also, in writing to his\nemployer, Matt devoted a postscript to White Fang. Weedon Scott reading the letter down in Circle City, came upon the\nfollowing:\n\n\"That dam wolf won't work. Won't eat. Aint got no spunk left. All the\ndogs is licking him. Wants to know what has become of you, and I don't\nknow how to tell him. Mebbe he is going to die.\" It was as Matt had said. White Fang had ceased eating, lost heart, and\nallowed every dog of the team to thrash him. In the cabin he lay on the\nfloor near the stove, without interest in food, in Matt, nor in life. Matt might talk gently to him or swear at him, it was all the same; he\nnever did more than turn his dull eyes upon the man, then drop his head\nback to its customary position on his fore-paws. And then, one night, Matt, reading to himself with moving lips and\nmumbled sounds, was startled by a low whine from White Fang. He had got\nupon his feet, his ears cocked towards the door, and he was listening\nintently. A moment later, Matt heard a footstep. The door opened, and\nWeedon Scott stepped in. The two men shook hands. Then Scott looked\naround the room. \"Where's the wolf?\" he asked. Then he discovered him, standing where he had been lying, near to the\nstove. He had not rushed forward after the manner of other dogs. He\nstood, watching and waiting. \"Holy smoke!\" Matt exclaimed. \"Look at 'm wag his tail!\" Weedon Scott strode half across the room toward him, at the same time\ncalling him. White Fang came to him, not with a great bound, yet\nquickly. He was awakened from self-consciousness, but as he drew near,\nhis eyes took on a strange expression. Something, an incommunicable\nvastness of feeling, rose up into his eyes as a light and shone forth. \"He never looked at me that way all the time you was gone!\" Matt\ncommented. Weedon Scott did not hear. He was squatting down on his heels, face to\nface with White Fang and petting him--rubbing at the roots of the ears,\nmaking long caressing strokes down the neck to the shoulders, tapping the\nspine gently with the balls of his fingers. And White Fang was growling\nresponsively, the crooning note of the growl more pronounced than ever. But that was not all. What of his joy, the great love in him, ever\nsurging and struggling to express itself, succeeded in finding a new\nmode of expression. He suddenly thrust his head forward and nudged his\nway in between the master's arm and body. And here, confined, hidden\nfrom view all except his ears, no longer growling, he continued to nudge\nand snuggle. The two men looked at each other. Scott's eyes were shining. \"Gosh!\" said Matt in an awe-stricken voice. A moment later, when he had recovered himself, he said, \"I always\ninsisted that wolf was a dog. Look at 'm!\" With the return of the love-master, White Fang's recovery was rapid. Two\nnights and a day he spent in the cabin. Then he sallied forth. The sled-\ndogs had forgotten his prowess. They remembered only the latest, which\nwas his weakness and sickness. At the sight of him as he came out of the\ncabin, they sprang upon him. \"Talk about your rough-houses,\" Matt murmured gleefully, standing in the\ndoorway and looking on. \"Give 'm hell, you wolf! Give 'm hell!--an' then some!\" White Fang did not need the encouragement. The return of the love-master\nwas enough. Life was flowing through him again, splendid and\nindomitable. He fought from sheer joy, finding in it an expression of\nmuch that he felt and that otherwise was without speech. There could be\nbut one ending. The team dispersed in ignominious defeat, and it was not\nuntil after dark that the dogs came sneaking back, one by one, by\nmeekness and humility signifying their fealty to White Fang. Having learned to snuggle, White Fang was guilty of it often. It was the\nfinal word. He could not go beyond it. The one thing of which he had\nalways been particularly jealous was his head. He had always disliked to\nhave it touched. It was the Wild in him, the fear of hurt and of the\ntrap, that had given rise to the panicky impulses to avoid contacts. It\nwas the mandate of his instinct that that head must be free. And now,\nwith the love-master, his snuggling was the deliberate act of putting\nhimself into a position of hopeless helplessness. It was an expression\nof perfect confidence, of absolute self-surrender, as though he said: \"I\nput myself into thy hands. Work thou thy will with me.\" One night, not long after the return, Scott and Matt sat at a game of\ncribbage preliminary to going to bed. \"Fifteen-two, fifteen-four an' a\npair makes six,\" Matt was pegging up, when there was an outcry and sound\nof snarling without. They looked at each other as they started to rise\nto their feet. \"The wolf's nailed somebody,\" Matt said. A wild scream of fear and anguish hastened them. \"Bring a light!\" Scott shouted, as he sprang outside. Matt followed with the lamp, and by its light they saw a man lying on his\nback in the snow. His arms were folded, one above the other, across his\nface and throat. Thus he was trying to shield himself from White Fang's\nteeth. And there was need for it. White Fang was in a rage, wickedly\nmaking his attack on the most vulnerable spot. From shoulder to wrist of\nthe crossed arms, the coat-sleeve, blue flannel shirt and undershirt were\nripped in rags, while the arms themselves were terribly slashed and\nstreaming blood. All this the two men saw in the first instant. The next instant Weedon\nScott had White Fang by the throat and was dragging him clear. White\nFang struggled and snarled, but made no attempt to bite, while he quickly\nquieted down at a sharp word from the master. Matt helped the man to his feet. As he arose he lowered his crossed\narms, exposing the bestial face of Beauty Smith. The dog-musher let go\nof him precipitately, with action similar to that of a man who has picked\nup live fire.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-13, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-16 The user is reading a book]\n<User> Beauty Smith blinked in the lamplight and looked about\nhim. He caught sight of White Fang and terror rushed into his face. At the same moment Matt noticed two objects lying in the snow. He held\nthe lamp close to them, indicating them with his toe for his employer's\nbenefit--a steel dog-chain and a stout club. Weedon Scott saw and nodded. Not a word was spoken. The dog-musher laid\nhis hand on Beauty Smith's shoulder and faced him to the right about. No\nword needed to be spoken. Beauty Smith started. In the meantime the love-master was patting White Fang and talking to\nhim. \"Tried to steal you, eh? And you wouldn't have it! Well, well, he made\na mistake, didn't he?\" \"Must 'a' thought he had hold of seventeen devils,\" the dog-musher\nsniggered. White Fang, still wrought up and bristling, growled and growled, the hair\nslowly lying down, the crooning note remote and dim, but growing in his\nthroat. PART V\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-16, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far."]
[{"question": "Summarize the content of the book I read from 2024-01-01 to 2024-01-16", "answer": "Cherokee, White Fang, bulldog fight, confusion, owner, thick flesh, throat bite, dying, man intervenes, Weedon Scott, Matt, Beauty Smith, mining expert, dog musher, one hundred and fifty dollars, taming White Fang, leash, meat, dog killed, Matt's leg ripped, revolver, shooting decision, rifle, cabin, intelligence, kindness, petting, love, sled work, guarding house, Circle City, cribbage, snarl, attack, club, chain, stealing attempt, muzzle nudging, loyalty"}]