 nor was there any way for him to learn
save by experience. He obeyed his natural impulses until they ran him counter to
some law. When this had been done a few times, he learned the law and after that
observed it.
    But most potent in his education were the cuff of the master's hand, the
censure of the master's voice. Because of White Fang's very great love, a cuff
from the master hurt him far more than any beating Gray Beaver or Beauty Smith
had ever given him. They had hurt only the flesh of him; beneath the flesh the
spirit had still raged, splendid and invincible. But with the master the cuff
was always too light to hurt the flesh. Yet it went deeper. It was an expression
of the master's disapproval, and White Fang's spirit wilted under it.
    In point of fact, the cuff was rarely administered. The master's voice was
sufficient. By it White Fang knew whether he did right or not. By it he trimmed
his conduct and adjusted his actions. It was the compass by which he steered and
learned to chart the manners of a new land and life.
    In the Northland, the only domesticated animal was the dog. All other
animals lived in the Wild, and were, when not too formidable, lawful spoil for
any dog. All his days White Fang had foraged among the live things for food. It
did not enter his head that in the Southland it was otherwise. But this he was
to learn early in his residence in Santa Clara Valley. Sauntering around the
corner of the house in the early morning, he came upon a chicken that had
escaped from the chicken-yard. White Fang's natural impulse was to eat it. A
couple of bounds, a flash of teeth and a frightened squawk, and he had scooped
in the adventurous fowl. It was farm-bred and fat and tender; and White Fang
licked his chops and decided that such fare was good.
    Later in the day, he chanced upon another stray chicken near the stables.
One of the grooms ran to the rescue. He did not know White Fang's breed, so for
weapon he took a light buggy-whip. At the first cut of the whip, White Fang left
the chicken for the man. A club might have stopped White Fang, but not a whip.
Silently, without flinching, he took a second cut in his forward rush, and as he
leaped for the throat the groom cried out, »My God!« and staggered backward
