Sourdough, like his master, was dour, morose, forbidding, and a
confirmed solitary. He was also a singularly ugly and unattractive
creature, whom no man had ever seen at play. But prior to Jan's arrival
he had been the unquestioned chief and master among R.N.W.M.P. dogs.

"Surly old devil, Sourdough," men had been wont to say of him; "but, by
gee! there's no getting around him; you can't fool Sourdough. He'd go
for a grizzly, if the grizzly wouldn't give him the trail. Aye, he's a
hard case, all right, is Sourdough. You can't faze him."

And Sergeant Moore, without ever moving a muscle in his mahogany face
(all the skin of which was indurated from chin to scalp with the finest
of fine-drawn lines) had yet been moved to rare delight by such remarks.
He hugged them to him. He gloried in all such tributes to Sourdough's
dourness.

"Aye, you're tough, Old-Timer," he had been heard to growl to his dog;
"you're a hard case, all right. There isn't a soft hair on you, is
there, Sourdough? And they all know it. They may squeal, but they've got
to give trail when Sourdough comes along."

There were times when he would cuff the dog, or snatch his food from
him, for the sheer delight of hearing the beast snarl--as he always
would--at his own master.

"What a husky!" he would say in an ecstasy of admiration. "You'd go for
me if I gave you half a chance, wouldn't you, Sourdough? And I don't
blame you, you old tough."