The Call of the Wild, by Jack London - Akasha Classics,
AkashaPublishing.Com - 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. At the rear things were on even a more spacious scale than
at the front. There were great stables, where a dozen grooms and
boys held forth, rows of vine-clad servants' cottages, an endless
and orderly array of outhouses, long grape arbors, green pastures,
orchards, and berry patches. Then there was the pumping plant for
the artesian well, and the big cement tank where Judge Miller's
boys took their morning plunge and kept cool in the hot afternoon.
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