turn south with him.  Always it was north, north with the white man first,
north with the Cree, and then wit h the Chippewayan, until in the end the
dog born in a Vancouver kennel died in an Eskimo igloo on the Great Bear.
But the breed of the Great Dane lived on.  Here and there, as the years
passed, one would find among the Eskimo trace-dogs, a grizzled-haired,
powerful-jawed giant that was alien to the arctic stock, and in these
occasional aliens ran the blood of Tao, the Dane. 

Forty years, more or less, after Shan Tung lost his life and his cue at
Copper Creek Camp, there was born on a firth of Coronation Gulf a dog who
was named Wapi, which means "the Walrus." Wapi, at full growth, was a
throwback of more than forty dog generations.  He was nearly as large as
his forefather, Tao.  His fangs were an inch in length, his great jaws
could crack the thigh-bone of a caribou, and from the beginning the hands
of men and the fangs of beasts were against him.  Almost from the day of
his birth until this winter of his fourth year, life for Wapi had been an
unceasing fight for existence.  He was maya-tisew--bad with the badness of
a devil.  His reputation had gone from master to master and from igloo to
igloo; women and children were afraid of him, and men always spoke to him
with the club or the lash in their hands.  He was hated and feared, and