The Call of the Wild

by Jack London

Chapter I. Into the Primitive

"Old longings nomadic leap,
Chafing at custom's chain;
Again from its brumal (winter) sleep
Wakens the wild, animal strain."

Buck did not read newspapers. If he had, he would have known that trouble was coming—not just for him, but for every strong dog with warm, long fur living near the water, from Puget Sound all the way to San Diego. Men had found gold up in the freezing Arctic, and shipping companies were spreading the news everywhere. Because of this, thousands of men were rushing north. These men needed dogs—big, strong dogs with thick fur coats to survive the cold and pull heavy loads.

Buck lived in a big house in the sunny Santa Clara Valley. People called it Judge Miller's place. The house sat back from the road, half-hidden by trees, with a wide, cool porch wrapping around all four sides. Gravel driveways curved through wide lawns and under tall poplar trees. The back of the property was even bigger than the front. There were huge stables where a dozen workers took care of horses, rows of small houses covered in vines where servants lived, many outbuildings, long grape arbors, green pastures, orchards, and berry patches. There was also a pump for a deep well and a big cement tank where Judge Miller's sons went swimming every morning and cooled off in the hot afternoons.

Buck ruled over this whole huge property. He was born here and had lived here for all four years of his life. Sure, there were other dogs—there had to be, on such a big place—but they didn't matter much. Some came and went. Others lived quietly inside the house, like Toots, the Japanese pug, or Ysabel, the hairless Mexican dog. These strange little dogs almost never went outside. Then there were the fox terriers—at least twenty of them—who barked fierce threats at Toots and Ysabel through the windows, safely guarded by maids armed with brooms and mops.

But Buck wasn't just a house pet or a kennel dog. The whole property belonged to him. He swam in the tank or went hunting with the Judge's sons. He walked with Mollie and Alice, the Judge's daughters, in the early morning or at sunset. On cold winter nights, he lay by the Judge's feet in front of the big library fireplace. He carried the Judge's grandsons on his back or rolled around with them in the grass, watching over them on their adventures down to the stable-yard fountain and even farther, to the paddocks and berry patches. He walked among the terriers like a king, and he completely ignored Toots and Ysabel. After all, he was king—king over every living thing on Judge Miller's land, including the people.

His father, Elmo, was a huge St. Bernard who had been the Judge's constant companion. Buck seemed likely to follow in his father's footsteps. He wasn't quite as big—he weighed only 140 pounds—because his mother, Shep, was a Scottish sheepdog. Still, 140 pounds, combined with the pride that comes from good living and everyone's respect, made him carry himself like true royalty. During his four years, he had lived like a spoiled nobleman. He was proud of himself, maybe even a little stuck-up, the way country gentlemen sometimes become when they live cut off from the rest of the world. But hunting and other outdoor activities had kept him from getting soft and lazy—they kept his muscles strong. And just like people who love cold baths, Buck loved swimming, which kept him healthy and strong.

This is the kind of dog Buck was in the fall of 1897, when news of gold in the Klondike pulled men from all over the world up to the frozen north. But Buck didn't read newspapers, so he didn't know that Manuel, one of the gardener's helpers, was not to be trusted. Manuel had one big weakness: he loved to gamble on the Chinese lottery. Worse, he believed he had figured out a winning "system" for gambling—which only made things worse, since playing a system takes money, and a gardener's helper's paycheck barely covered his wife and many children.

On the important night when Manuel betrayed Buck, the Judge was away at a meeting, and the boys were busy planning a sports club. No one noticed Manuel leading Buck through the orchard—Buck thought they were just going for a walk. And except for one man waiting nearby, nobody saw them reach the small train station called College Park. This stranger talked with Manuel, and Buck heard the sound of coins changing hands.

"You'd better wrap up the goods before you hand them over," the stranger said roughly. Manuel wrapped a thick rope around Buck's neck, tucking it under his collar.

"Twist it, and you'll choke him plenty," said Manuel. The stranger grunted in agreement.

Buck accepted the rope calmly and with dignity. It was unusual, sure, but he had learned to trust people he knew and to believe they were wiser than him. But when Manuel handed the rope's ends to the stranger, Buck growled a warning. He thought that growling would be enough to stop them—after all, he was used to being obeyed. But to his shock, the rope tightened around his neck, cutting off his air. Furious, he lunged at the man, who grabbed him by the throat and flipped him onto his back with a quick twist. Then the rope pulled tighter and tighter while Buck struggled with all his strength, his tongue hanging out and his chest heaving uselessly. Never in his life had he been treated so badly, and never had he felt such anger. But his strength drained away, his eyes went blurry, and he blacked out just as the train stopped and the two men threw him into the baggage car.

The next thing Buck knew, his tongue hurt badly and he was being bounced around inside some kind of vehicle. The loud whistle of a train crossing told him where he was. He had traveled with the Judge enough times to recognize the feeling of riding in a baggage car. He opened his eyes, filled with the rage of a kidnapped king. The man lunged for his throat, but Buck was faster. His jaws clamped onto the man's hand and wouldn't let go until Buck passed out again from lack of air.

"Yep, he has fits," the man said, hiding his torn-up hand from the baggage worker who had come to see what the noise was about. "I'm bringing him to my boss in San Francisco. A good dog doctor there thinks he can cure him."

Later that night, in a shed behind a saloon on the San Francisco waterfront, the man complained loudly about what had happened.

"All I'm getting is fifty dollars for this," he grumbled. "I wouldn't do it again for a thousand, not even in cash."

His hand was wrapped in a bloody cloth, and his right pant leg was torn from the knee down to the ankle.

"How much did the other guy get?" the saloon owner asked.

"A hundred," the man answered. "He wouldn't take a penny less, I swear."

"That's a hundred and fifty total," the saloon owner said, thinking it over. "And he's worth it, or I don't know dogs."

The kidnapper unwrapped his bloody hand and looked at the wound. "If I don't get rabies from this—"

"It'll only be because you were born lucky," laughed the saloon owner. "Here, help me with something before you go," he added.

Dazed and in terrible pain from his throat and tongue, half-choked to death, Buck tried to fight back against the men tormenting him. But they knocked him down and choked him again and again until they managed to file off the heavy brass collar around his neck. Then they removed the rope and threw him into a cage-like crate.

Buck lay there for the rest of that miserable night, nursing his anger and hurt pride. He couldn't understand what was happening. What did these strange men want with him? Why were they keeping him trapped in this narrow box? He didn't know why, but he felt a heavy sense that something terrible was about to happen. Several times during the night, he jumped up when the shed door rattled open, hoping to see the Judge or at least the boys. But each time, it was only the saloon owner's puffy face peering in by the dim light of a candle. And each time, the happy bark rising in Buck's throat turned into an angry growl instead.

The saloon owner left him alone, though, and in the morning, four men came in and picked up the crate. More tormentors, Buck decided, because they looked rough and messy. He barked and raged at them through the bars. They just laughed and poked sticks at him, which he bit at right away—until he realized that was exactly what they wanted him to do. So he lay down, sulking, and let them load the crate onto a wagon.

Then Buck, still trapped in his crate, was passed from hand to hand. Workers at a shipping office took charge of him. He was carried in another wagon, then loaded onto a truck along with a bunch of boxes and packages, then put on a ferry boat. From the ferry, he was moved to a large train station, and finally placed in a train car meant for cargo.

For two days and nights, this train car rattled along behind screeching locomotives. For two days and nights, Buck neither ate nor drank anything. Angry, he had growled at the train workers who came near him, and they had teased him back. When he threw himself against the bars, shaking and foaming at the mouth, they laughed and made fun of him. They growled and barked like annoying dogs, meowed like cats, flapped their arms, and crowed like roosters. It was all very silly, he knew—but that only made it worse for his pride, and his anger grew and grew. He didn't mind being hungry so much, but not having water made him suffer badly and made his anger boil even hotter. Buck was naturally high-strung and sensitive, and the harsh treatment gave him a fever, made worse by his swollen, dry throat and tongue.

At least one thing made him glad: the rope was gone from his neck. That rope had given the men an unfair advantage. But now that it was off, he would show them. He vowed that no one would ever get another rope around his neck again. For two days and nights he ate nothing and drank nothing, and during that time of suffering, he built up a huge store of anger—bad news for whoever crossed him first. His eyes turned bloodshot, and he became like a raging monster. He had changed so much that even the Judge wouldn't have recognized him. The train workers were relieved when they finally unloaded him from the train in Seattle.

Four men carefully carried the crate from the wagon into a small yard with high walls. A heavy-set man wearing a red sweater that hung loosely at the neck came out and signed the delivery paper for the driver. Buck sensed right away that this was the next person to torment him, and he threw himself furiously against the bars. The man smiled coldly and went to get a hatchet and a club.

"You're not going to let him out now, are you?" the driver asked.

"Sure I am," the man answered, jamming the hatchet into the crate to pry it open.

The four men who had carried the crate in scattered instantly, and from...