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, calculated for a moment.
“Three hundred dollars,” he answered.
“And how much for one that’s all chewed up like this one?” Scott asked, nudging White Fang with his foot.
“Half of that,” was the dog-musher’s judgment. Scott turned upon Beauty Smith.
“Did you hear, Mr. Beast? I’m going to take your dog from you, and I’m going 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 proffered money.
“I ain’t a-sellin’,” he said.