Buck did not read the news­papers, or he would have known that trouble was brew­ing, not a­lone for himself, but for every tide-water dog, strong of muscle and with warm, long hair, from Puget Sound to San Diego. Be­cause men, groping in the Arc­tic dark­ness, had found a yellow metal, and because steam­ship and transportation com­pan­ies were booming the find, thou­sands of men were rushing into the Northland.

These men wanted dogs, and the dogs they wanted were heavy dogs, with strong muscles by which to toil, and furry coats to protect them from the frost.

Buck lived at a big house in the sun-kissed Santa Clara Val­ley. Judge Miller's place, it was called. It stood back from the road, half hidden among the trees, through which glimps­es could be caught of the wide cool veranda that ran around its four sides. The house was ap­proached by gravelled driveways which wound about through wide-spread­ing lawns and under the interlacing boughs of tall poplars.