"And the work?"

"Yes, plenty of work," Miller blurted out impatiently. "Work
without end, an' famine, an' frost, an all the rest of the miseries
- that's what he'll get when he comes with me. But he likes it.
He is used to it. He knows that life. He was born to it an'
brought up to it. An' you don't know anything about it. You don't
know what you're talking about. That's where the dog belongs, and
that's where he'll be happiest."

"The dog doesn't go," Walt announced in a determined voice. "So
there is no need of further discussion."

"What's that?" Skiff Miller demanded, his brows lowering and an
obstinate flush of blood reddening his forehead.

"I said the dog doesn't go, and that settles it. I don't believe
he's your dog. You may have seen him sometime. You may even
sometime have driven him for his owner. But his obeying the
ordinary driving commands of the Alaskan trail is no demonstration
that he is yours. Any dog in Alaska would obey you as he obeyed.
Besides, he is undoubtedly a valuable dog, as dogs go in Alaska,
and that is sufficient explanation of your desire to get possession
of him. Anyway, you've got to prove property."

Skiff Miller, cool and collected, the obstinate flush a trifle
deeper on his forehead, his huge muscles bulging under the black
cloth of his coat, carefully looked the poet up and down as though
measuring the strength of his slenderness.