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 being, Silversheene the wolf. The savage instincts of his nature were in full play. He was living the life which is war continually. Kill or be killed, was the motto of this world in which he now found himself, and he saw to it that he was not the under dog, or under wolf.

Yet often in his sleep he still dreamed of Dick and Hilda and often in his waking moments he longed with all his being for a gentle hand on his head and a soft word from those voices which had been such sweet music to his ears. But all these things were thousands of miles away. Only in his dreams and his memories did Silversheene ever touch noses with the gentler things of his past life. To all intents and purposes for the time being he was a wolf, the scourge of civilization. Yet he had once been a good dog, loving, gentle and faithful, defending his friends even with his very life. A brute of a man and brutal circumstances had driven him back to the first state of his forbears.