" So,
omitting breakfast, I put a piece of bread in my pocket and hurried
away.
Mr. Young and the Indians were asleep, and so, I hoped, was Stickeen;
but I had not gone a dozen rods before he left his bed in the tent and
came boring through the blast after me. That a man should welcome
storms for their exhilarating music and motion, and go forth to see God
making landscapes, is reasonable enough; but what fascination could
there be in such tremendous weather for a dog? Surely nothing akin to
human enthusiasm for scenery or geology. Anyhow, on he came,
breakfastless, through the choking blast. I stopped and did my best to
turn him back. "Now don't," I said, shouting to make myself heard in the
storm, "now don't, Stickeen. What has got into your queer noddle now?
You must be daft. This wild day has nothing for you. There is no game
abroad, nothing but weather. Go back to camp and keep warm, get a good
breakfast with your master, and be sensible for once. I can't carry you
all day or feed you, and this storm will kill you."
But Nature, it seems, was at the bottom of the affair, and she gains her
ends with dogs as well as with men, making us do as she likes, shoving
and pulling us along her ways, however rough, all but killing us at
times in getting her lessons driven hard home.
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