“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, his brows lowering and an obstinate flush of blood reddening his forehead.