moment the spirit in him grew more insistent, and he whined up at the
stars. At last he saw the ship, a wraithlike thing in its piled-up bed of
ice, and he stopped. This was his dead-line. He had never gone nearer.
But tonight--if any one period could be called night--he went on.

It was the hour of sleep, and there was no sound aboard. The foxes, never
tiring of their infuriating sport, were yapping at the ship. They barked
faster and louder when they caught the scent of Wapi, and as he
approached, they drifted farther away. The scent of the woman's trail led
up the wide bridge of ice, and Wapi followed this as he would have
followed a road, until he found himself all at once on the deck of the
Flying Moon. For a space he was startled. His long fangs bared themselves
at the shadows cast by the stars. Then he saw ahead of him a narrow
ribbon of yellow light. Toward this Wapi sniffed out, step by step, the
footprints of the woman. When he stopped again, his muzzle was at the
narrow crack through which came the glimmer of light.

It was the door of a deck-house veneered like an igloo with snow and ice
to protect it from cold and wind. It was, perhaps, half an inch ajar, and
through that aperture Wapi drank the warm, sweet perfume of the woman.
With it he caught also the smell of a man. But in him the woman scent
submerged all else. Overwhelmed by it, he stood trembling, not daring to
move, every inch of him thrilled by a vast and mysterious yearning. He
was no longer Wapi, the Walrus; Wapi, the Killer. Tao was there. And it
may be that the spirit of Shan Tung was there. For after forty years the
change had come, and Wapi, as he stood at the woman's door, was just
dog,--a white man's dog--again the dog of the Vancouver kennel--the dog
of a white man's world.

He thrust open the door with his nose. He slunk in, so silently that he