"I nearly ate him once, over on Little Fish River," Miller
volunteered grimly. "If I hadn't got a moose that day was all that
saved 'm."

"I'd have died first!" Madge cried.

"Things is different down here", Miller explained. "You don't have
to eat dogs. You think different just about the time you're all
in. You've never ben all in, so you don't know anything about it."

"That's the very point," she argued warmly. "Dogs are not eaten in
California. Why not leave him here? He is happy. He'll never
want for food - you know that. He'll never suffer from cold and
hardship. Here all is softness and gentleness. Neither the human
nor nature is savage. He will never know a whip-lash again. And
as for the weather - why, it never snows here."

"But it's all-fired hot in summer, beggin' your pardon," Skiff
Miller laughed.

"But you do not answer," Madge continued passionately. "What have
you to offer him in that northland life?"

"Grub, when I've got it, and that's most of the time," came the
answer.

"And the rest of the time?"

"No grub."