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I shall meet his Majesty, the King." And to such an argument I found no logical answer.

Mr. Marmaduke Manners and his lady came to fetch Dorothy home. He was a foppish little gentleman who thought more of the cut of his waistcoat than of the affairs of the province, and would rather have been bidden to lead the assembly ball than to sit in council with his Excellency the Governor. . . . He had little in common with my grandfather, whose chief business and pleasure was to promote industry on his farm. Mr. Marmaduke was wont to rise at noon, and knew not wheat from barley, or good leaf from bad; his hands he kept like a lady's, rendering them almost useless by the long lace on the sleeves, and his chief pastime was card-playing.

Of Mrs. Manners I shall say more by and by. I took a mischievous delight in giving Mr. Manners every annoyance my boyish fancy could conceive. The evening of his arrival he and Mr. Carvel set out for a stroll about the house, Mr. Marmaduke mincing his steps, for it had rained that morning. And presently they came upon the windmill with its long arms moving lazily in the light breeze, near touching the ground as they passed, for the mill was built in the Dutch fashion. I know not what moved me, but hearing Mr. Manners carelessly humming a minuet while my grandfather explained the usefulness of the mill, I seized hold of one of the long arms as it swung by, and before the gentlemen could prevent, was carried slowly upwards. Dorothy screamed, and her father stood stock still with amazement and fear, Mr. Carvel being the only one who kept his presence of mind. "Hold on tight, Richard!" I heard him cry. It was dizzy riding, though the motion was not great, and before I had reached the right angle I regretted my rashness. I caught a glimpse

of the Bay with the red sun on it, and as I turned saw far below me the white figure of Ivie Rawlinson, the Scotch miller, who had run out. "O haith!" he shouted, “Haud fast, Mr. Richard!" And so I clung tightly and came down without much inconvenience, though indifferently glad to feel the ground again.

Mr. Marmaduke, as I expected, was in a great temper, and swore he had not had such a fright for years. He looked for Mr. Carvel to cane me stoutly. But Ivie laughed heartily and said: "I wad ye'll gang far for anither laddie wi' the spunk, Mr. Manners," and with a sly look at my grandfather, "Ilka day we hae some sic whigmeleery." I think Mr. Carvel was not ill-pleased with the feat, or with Mr. Marmaduke's way of taking it. For afterwards I overheard him telling the story to Colonel Lloyd, and both gentlemen laughing over Mr. Manners's discomfiture.

21. Jack London (1876- ) is a promising young writer of the West. The Call of the Wild first brought his name before the public. He has since written many other stories both long and short.

TO THE DEATH

(From The Call of the Wild, Chapter III)

Spitz, cold and calculating even in his supreme moods, left the pack and cut across a narrow neck of land where the creek made a long bend around. Buck did not know of this, and as he rounded the bend, the frost wraith of a rabbit still flitting before him, he saw another and larger frost wraith leap from the overhanging bank into the immediate path of the rabbit. It was Spitz. The rabbit could not turn, and as the white teeth broke its back in mid air it shrieked as loudly as a stricken man may shriek.

Buck did not cry out. He did not check himself, but drove in upon Spitz, shoulder to shoulder, so hard that he missed the throat. They rolled over and over in the powdery snow. Spitz gained his feet almost as though he had not been overthrown, slashing Buck down the shoulder and leaping clear. Twice his teeth clipped together, like the steel jaws of a trap, as he backed away for better footing, with lean and lifting lips that writhed and snarled.

In a flash Buck knew it. The time had come. It was to the death. As they circled about, snarling, ears laid back, keenly watchful for the advantage, the scene came

to Buck with a sense of familiarity. He seemed to remember it all,-the white woods, and earth, and moonlight, and the thrill of battle. Over the whiteness and silence brooded a ghostly calm. . . . It was as though it had always been, the wonted way of things.

Spitz was a practised fighter. . . . He never rushed till he was prepared to receive a rush; never attacked till he had first defended that attack.

In vain Buck strove to sink his teeth in the neck of the big white dog. Wherever his fangs struck for the softer flesh, they were countered by the fangs of Spitz. Fang clashed fang, and lips were cut and bleeding, but Buck could not penetrate his enemy's guard. Then he warmed up and enveloped Spitz in a whirlwind of rushes. Time and time again he tried for the snow-white throat, where life bubbled near to the surface, and each time and every time Spitz slashed him and got away. Then Buck took to rushing, as though for the throat, when, suddenly drawing back his head and curving in from the side, he would drive his shoulder at the shoulder of Spitz, as a ram by which to overthrow him. But instead Buck's shoulder was slashed down each time as Spitz leaped lightly away.

Spitz was untouched, while Buck was streaming with blood and panting hard. The fight was growing desperate.

And all the while the silent and wolfish circle waited to finish off whichever dog went down. As Buck grew winded, Spitz took to rushing, and he kept him staggering for footing. Once Buck went over, and the whole circle of sixty dogs started up; but he recovered himself, almost in mid air, and the circle sank down again and waited.

But Buck possessed a quality that made for greatness -imagination. He fought by instinct, but he could fight by head as well. He rushed, as though attempting the old shoulder trick, but at the last instant swept low to the snow and in. His teeth closed on Spitz's left fore leg. There was a crunch of breaking bone, and the white dog faced him on three legs. Thrice he tried to knock him over, then repeated the trick and broke the right fore leg. Despite the pain and helplessness, Spitz struggled madly

to keep up. He saw the silent circle, with gleaming eyes, lolling tongues and silvery breaths drifting upward, closing in upon him as he had seen similar circles close in upon beaten antagonists in the past. Only this time he was the one who was beaten.

There was no hope for him. Buck was inexorable. Mercy was a thing reserved for gentler climes. He manœuvred for the final rush. The circle had tightened till he could feel the breaths of the huskies on his flanks. He could see them, beyond Spitz and to either side, half crouching for the spring, their eyes fixed upon him. A pause seemed to fall. Every animal was motionless as though turned to stone. Only Spitz quivered and bristled as he staggered back and forth, snarling with horrible menace, as though to frighten off impending death. Then Buck sprang in and out; but while he was in, shoulder had at last squarely met shoulder. The dark circle became a dot on the moon-flooded snow as Spitz disappeared from view. Buck stood and looked on, the successful champion, the dominant primordial beast who had made his kill and found it good.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

I. FOR FURTHER ILLUSTRATION

Burnett, F. H.: Editha's Burglar.

My Robin.

The Secret Garden.

Through One Administration.

Cable, G. W.: Old Creole Days.
Churchill, Winston: Coniston.

Richard Carvel.

Davis, R. H.: The Hungry Man was Fed. (In Van Bibber and Others.)

Love Me, Love my Dog. (In Van Bibber and Others.)

The Red Cross Girl.

Deland, M. W.: Old Chester Tales.

The Voice.

Fox, John, Jr.: The Trail of the Lonesome Pine.

Freeman, Mary E. Wilkins: A New England Nun and Other Stories.

Silence and Other Stories.

Garland, H.: Main Travelled Roads.

Rose of Dutcher's Coolly.

Harris, J. C.: Uncle Remus, His Songs and Sayings.

Howells, W. D.: The Elevator. (In The Sleeping Car and Other Farces.)

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A Memory that Worked Overtime. (In Between the Dark and the Daylight.)

The Story of the Author's Life. (In The Howells Story Book, by Mildred Howells and Mary E. Burt.)

James, H. R.: A Passionate Pilgrim. (In A Passionate Pilgrim.) The Madonna of the Future. (In A Passionate Pilgrim.) Daisy Miller.

London, Jack: The Call of the Wild.

Murfree, M. N.: The Young Mountaineers.

The Raid of the Guerilla.

Norris, F.: The Octopus.

The Pit.

Page, T. N.: Red Rock.

Under the Crust. (Short stories.)

Porter, W. S. (O. Henry): The Hiding of Black Bill. (In Options.)
The Voice of the City. (Short stories.)

Seton, Ernest Thompson: Lives of the Hunted.
Wild Animals I Have Known.

Smith, F. H.: Colonel Carter of Cartersville.

The Arm Chair at the Inn. (Short stories.)
The Woodfire in No. 3. (Short stories.)

Stuart, R. McE.: A Golden Wedding and Other Tales.
George Washington Jones.

Moriah's Mourning and Other Half-Hour Sketches.

Wharton, E.: Italian Backgrounds.

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I. Lyman Abbott (1835- ), editor of The Outlook, is a New York preacher and ethical teacher of note. His editorials are widely read. The following introduction to his article on the Open Shop is a splendid illustration of clear, logical reasoning.

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