The Call of the Wild

by Jack London

Contents

• Chapter I. Into the Primitive
• Chapter II. The Law of Club and Fang
• Chapter III. The Dominant Primordial Beast
• Chapter IV. Who Has Won to Mastership
• Chapter V. The Toil of Trace and Trail
• Chapter VI. For the Love of a Man
• Chapter VII. The Sounding of the Call

Chapter I. Into the Primitive

Old longings nomadic leap,
Chafing at custom's chain;
Again from its brumal sleep
Wakens the ferine strain.

(This poem hints at the story to come: a wild, ancient urge stirring inside a tame animal, breaking free from the "chains" of civilized habits.)

Buck did not read newspapers. If he had, he would have known that trouble was coming—not just for him, but for every strong, warm-furred dog living along the coast from Puget Sound to San Diego. Far to the north, in the icy darkness of the Arctic, men had discovered gold. Steamship companies and transportation businesses spread the news everywhere, and thousands of men rushed toward the frozen north to search for it. These men needed dogs—big, powerful dogs with thick fur coats that could work hard and survive the freezing cold.

Buck lived in a large house in the warm, sunny Santa Clara Valley, on a property called Judge Miller's place. The house sat back from the road, partly hidden by trees, with a wide, shady porch wrapping around all four sides. Gravel driveways curved through spreading lawns, beneath tall poplar trees. Behind the house, everything was even grander: huge stables staffed by a dozen workers, vine-covered cottages for the servants, endless rows of outbuildings, long grape arbors, green pastures, orchards, and berry patches. There was also a pump for the well and a big cement pool where the Judge's sons swam every morning and cooled off on hot afternoons.

Buck ruled over this whole estate. He had been born there and had lived there for four years. Of course, there were other dogs—there had to be, on such a huge property—but they didn't matter much. Some came and went. Others lived quietly indoors, like Toots the Japanese pug or Ysabel the Mexican hairless dog—strange little creatures who almost never went outside. Then there were about twenty fox terriers who barked fierce threats at Toots and Ysabel through the windows, protected by an army of maids armed with brooms.

But Buck was neither a house-dog nor a kennel-dog. The whole estate belonged to him. He swam in the pool, went hunting with the Judge's sons, and walked with Mollie and Alice, the Judge's daughters, in the early morning or at dusk. On cold nights, he lay at the Judge's feet by the roaring fire in the library. He carried the Judge's grandchildren on his back, tumbled with them in the grass, and watched over them on their adventures down to the stable-yard fountain and even farther, past the paddocks and berry patches. He strutted among the terriers like a king, and simply ignored Toots and Ysabel—because he was king, ruler over every living creature on Judge Miller's land, humans included.

Buck's father, Elmo, a huge St. Bernard, had been the Judge's constant companion, and Buck seemed likely to follow in his father's footsteps. Buck wasn't quite as large—he weighed one hundred forty pounds—since his mother, Shep, was a Scottish shepherd dog. Still, one hundred forty pounds, combined with the pride that comes from good living and everyone's respect, let him carry himself like true royalty. For four years, since he was a puppy, he had lived like a comfortable, well-fed aristocrat. He was proud of himself—maybe a little too proud, the way country gentlemen sometimes become when they stay in one place too long. But hunting and other outdoor activities had kept him from turning into a lazy, overweight house-pet. They kept his muscles hard and strong, and—like people who love cold baths—he found swimming refreshing and healthy.

This is the kind of dog Buck was in the fall of 1897, when news of gold in the Klondike (a region in the far north) pulled men from all over the world into the frozen wilderness. But Buck didn't read newspapers, so he had no idea that Manuel, one of the gardener's helpers, was a dangerous person to know. Manuel had one serious weakness: he loved to gamble on a Chinese lottery game. Worse, he believed he had found a winning "system"—a set of tricks that would guarantee he won. This belief would be his downfall, because playing a system takes money, and a gardener's helper's wages weren't nearly enough to support his system and his wife and many children.

On the night Manuel betrayed Buck's trust, the Judge was away at a meeting for raisin growers, and the boys were busy starting a sports club. So no one saw Manuel lead Buck through the orchard—Buck thought they were simply going for a walk. And except for one man waiting there, no one saw them reach the small train station called College Park. This stranger talked quietly with Manuel, and money passed between their hands.

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

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

Buck accepted the rope calmly. It was unusual, sure—but he trusted people he knew and assumed they understood things he didn't. However, when the stranger took hold of the rope's ends, Buck growled a warning. He believed that showing his displeasure would be enough to make the man stop—after all, he was used to being obeyed. Instead, the rope tightened around his throat, cutting off his air. Furious, Buck lunged at the man, who grabbed him by the throat and, with a quick twist, threw him onto his back. The rope pulled tighter and tighter while Buck struggled desperately, his tongue hanging out and his chest heaving for air that wouldn't come. He had never been treated so cruelly in his life, and he had never been so angry. But his strength drained away, his vision blurred, and he lost consciousness just as the men flagged down a passing train and threw him into the baggage car.

The next thing Buck knew, his tongue hurt badly, and he could feel himself being jolted around inside some kind of vehicle. He heard a train whistle blow at a crossing and realized where he was—he had ridden in baggage cars with the Judge often enough to recognize the feeling. He opened his eyes, and they burned with the rage of a captured king. He lunged for the man's throat, but the man was ready and Buck's jaws snapped shut on his hand instead. He held on until he was choked into unconsciousness again.

"Yep, he has fits," the man told the baggage worker, who had heard the noise and come to look. He hid his torn-up hand as he spoke. "I'm bringing him to my boss in San Francisco. There's a good dog doctor there who 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 he'd been through.

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

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

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

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

"That's a hundred fifty total," the saloon-keeper said, doing the math. "And he's worth every penny, or I don't know dogs."

The kidnapper unwrapped his bloody hand and studied the damage. "If I catch rabies from this bite—"

"Then it'll be because you were born to be hanged anyway," the saloon-keeper laughed. "Here, help me before you head off," he added.

Dazed and in terrible pain from his throat and tongue, barely able to breathe after being half-strangled, Buck tried to fight back against his captors. But they threw 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 shoved him into a cage-like wooden crate.

He spent the rest of that miserable night in the crate, nursing his anger and wounded pride. He couldn't understand any of it. What did these strange men want from him? Why were they keeping him locked in this tiny box? He didn't know the reason, but he felt a heavy sense that something terrible was about to happen. Several times during the night, when the shed door rattled open, he jumped up hoping to see the Judge or at least the boys. But each time, it was only the saloon-keeper's puffy face peering in by candlelight. And each time, the happy bark rising in Buck's throat turned into an angry growl instead.

The saloon-keeper left him alone after that, but in the morning, four men came in and picked up the crate. More tormentors, Buck decided—they looked rough and unkempt, and he barked and snarled at them through the bars. They just laughed and poked sticks at him, which he bit at furiously until he realized that was exactly the reaction they wanted. So he stopped and lay down sullenly, letting them lift the crate onto a wagon.

From there, Buck and his crate passed through many different hands. Workers at a shipping office took charge of him. He was carried in another wagon, then loaded onto a truck along with a pile of boxes and packages, then taken across the water on a ferry. After the ferry, a truck carried him into a huge train station, and finally he was placed inside a train car meant for freight.

For two days and nights, this train car rattled along behind screeching locomotives, and for two days and nights, Buck ate and drank nothing. Furious, he had met the first friendly gestures from the train workers with growls, and in response, they teased him constantly. When he threw himself against the bars, shaking and foaming at the mouth, they laughed and mocked him—growling and barking like dogs themselves, or making cat sounds, flapping their arms and crowing like roosters. He knew it was ridiculous, but that only made it feel like a greater insult to his pride, and his anger grew and grew. He didn't mind the hunger so much, but going without water caused him real suffering and pushed his fury to a boiling point. Being naturally high-strung and sensitive, the harsh treatment gave him a fever, made worse by his swollen, parched throat and tongue.

At least one thing comforted him: the rope was gone from his neck. That rope had given his enemies an unfair advantage, but now that it was off, he vowed they would never get another one around his throat again. For two full days and nights he refused all food and water, and during that time of suffering, he built up a store of rage that would spell trouble for whoever crossed him first. His eyes turned red, and he became something like a raging monster. He had changed so much that even Judge Miller wouldn't have recognized him—and 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 surrounded by high walls. A heavy-set man wearing a red sweater that sagged loosely at the neck came out and signed the delivery paperwork for the driver. Buck sensed at once that this man was his next tormentor, and he threw himself violently against the bars. The man only smiled grimly and went to fetch a hatchet and a club.

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

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

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