TAMMAS had but told the melancholy truth. Owd Bob was not to run for the cup. And this self-denying ordinance speaks more for James Moore's love of his lost wife than many a lordly cenotaph.
To the people of the Daleland, from the Black Water to the market-cross in Grammoch-town, the news came with the shock of a sudden blow. They had set their hearts on the Gray Dog's success; and had felt serenely confident of his victory. But the sting of the matter lay in this: that now the Tailless Tyke might well win.
M'Adam, on the other hand, was plunged into a fervor of delight at the news. For to win the Shepherds' Trophy was the goal of his ambition. David was now less than nothing to the lonely little man, Red Wull everything to him. And to have that name handed down to posterity, gallantly holding its place among those of the most famous sheep-dogs of all time, was his heart's desire.
As Cup Day drew near, the little man, his fine-drawn temperament strung to the highest pitch of nervousness, was tossed on a sea of apprehension. His hopes and fears ebbed and flowed on the tide of the moment. His moods were as uncertain as the winds in March; and there was no dependence on his humor for a unit of time. At one minute he paced up and down the kitchen, his face already flushed with the glow of victory, chanting:
“Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled!”
At the next he was down at the table, his head buried in his hands, his whole figure shaking, as he cried in choking voice: “Eh, Wullie, Wullie, they're all agin us.”
David found that life with his father now was life with an unamiable hornet. Careless as he affected to be of his father's vagaries, he was tried almost to madness, and fled away at every moment to Kenmuir; for, as he told Maggie, “I'd sooner put up wi' your h'airs and h'imperences, miss, than wi' him, the wemon that he be!”
At length the great day came. Fears, hopes, doubts, dismays, all dispersed in the presence of the reality.
Cup Day is always a general holiday in the Daleland, and every soul crowds over to Silverdale. Shops were shut; special trains ran in to Grammoch-town; and the road from the little town was dazed with char-a-bancs, brakes, wagonettes, carriages, carts, foot-passengers, wending toward the Dalesman's Daughter.
And soon the paddock below that little inn was humming with the crowd of sportsmen and spectators come to see the battle for the Shepherd's Trophy.
There, very noticeable with its red body and yellow wheels, was the great Kenmuir wagon. Many an eye was directed on the handsome young pair who stood in it, conspicuous and unconscious, above the crowd: Maggie, looking in her simple print frock as sweet and fresh as any mountain flower; while David's fair face was all gloomy and his brows knit.
In front of the wagon was a black cluster of Dalesmen, discussing M'Adam's chances. In the centre was Tammas holding forth. Had you passed close to the group you might have heard: “A man, d'yo say, Mr. Maddox? A h'ape, I call him”; or: “A dog? more like an 'og, I tell yo'.” Round the old orator were Jonas, 'Enry, and oor Job, Jem Burton, Rob Saunderson, Tupper, Jim Mason, Hoppin, and others; while on the outskirts stood Sam'l Todd prophesying rain and M'Adam's victory. Close at hand Bessie Bolstock, who was reputed to have designs on David, was giggling spitefully at the pair in the Kenmuir wagon, and singing:
“Let a lad aloan, lass, Let a lad a-be.”
While her father, Teddy, dodged in and out among the crowd with tray and glasses: for Cup Day was the great day of the year for him.
Past the group of Dalesmen and on all sides was a mass of bobbing heads—Scots, Northerners, Yorkshiremen, Taffies. To right and left a long array of carriages and carts, ranging from the squire's quiet landau and Viscount Birdsaye's gorgeous barouche to Liz Burton's three-legged moke-cart with little Mrs. Burton, the twins, young Jake (who should have walked), and Monkey (ditto) packed away inside. Beyond the Silver Lea the gaunt Scaur raised its craggy peak, and the Pass, trending along its side, shone white in the sunshine.
At the back of the carriages were booths, cocoanut-shies, Aunt Sallies, shows, bookmakers' stools, and all the panoply of such a meeting. Here Master Launcelot Bilks and Jacky Sylvester were fighting; Cyril Gilbraith was offering to take on the boxing man; Long Kirby was snapping up the odds against Red Wull; and Liz Burton and young Ned Hoppin were being photographed together, while Melia Ross in the background was pretending she didn't care.
On the far bank of the stream was a little bevy of men and dogs, observed of all.
The Juvenile Stakes had been run and won; Londesley's Lassie had carried off the Locals; and the fight for the Shepherds' Trophy was about to begin.
“Yo're not lookin' at me noo,” whispered Maggie to the silent boy by her side.
“Nay; nor niver don't wush to agin.” David answered roughly. His gaze was directed over the array of heads in front to where, beyond the Silver Lea, a group of shepherds and their dogs was clustered. While standing apart from the rest, in characteristic isolation, was the bent figure of his father, and beside him the Tailless Tyke.
“Doest'o not want yo' feyther to win?” asked Maggie softly, following his gaze.
“I'm prayin' he'll be beat,” the boy answered moodily.
“Eh, Davie, hoo can ye?” cried the girl, shocked.
“It's easy to say, 'Eh, David,'” he snapped. “But if yo' lived along o' them two “—he nodded toward the stream—“'appen yo'd understand a bit.... 'Eh, David,' indeed! I never did!”
“I know it, lad,” she said tenderly; and he was appeased.
“He'd give his right hand for his bless'd Wullie to win; I'd give me right arm to see him beat.... And oor Bob there all the while,”—he nodded to the far left of the line, where stood James Moore and Owd Bob, with Parson Leggy and the Squire.
When at length Red Wull came out to run his course, he worked with the savage dash that always characterized him. His method was his own; but the work was admirably done.
“Keeps right on the back of his sheep,” said the parson, watching intently. “Strange thing they don't break!” But they didn't. There was no waiting, no coaxing; it was drive and devilry all through. He brought his sheep along at a terrific rate, never missing a turn, never faltering, never running out. And the crowd applauded, for the crowd loves a dashing display. While little M'Adam, hopping agilely about, his face ablaze with excitement, handled dog and sheep with a masterly precision that compelled the admiration even of his enemies.
“M'Adam wins!” roared a bookmaker. “Twelve to one agin the field!”
“He wins, dang him!” said David, low.
“Wull wins!” said the parson, shutting his lips.
“And deserves too!” said James Moore.
“Wull wins!” softly cried the crowd.
“We don't!” said Sam'l gloomily.
And in the end Red Wull did Win; and there were none save Tammas, the bigot, and Long Kirby, who had lost a good deal of his wife's money and a little of his own, to challenge the justice of the verdict.
The win had but a chilling reception. At first there was faint cheering; but it sounded like the echo of an echo, and soon died of inanition. To get up an ovation, there must be money at the back, or a few roaring fanatics to lead the dance. Here there was neither; ugly stories, disparaging remarks, on every hand. And the hundreds who did not know took their tone, as always, from those who said they did.
M'Adam could but remark the absence of enthusiasm as he pushed up through the throng toward the committee tent. No single voice hailed him victor; no friendly hand smote its congratulations. Broad backs were turned; contemptuous glances levelled; spiteful remarks shot. Only the foreign element looked curiously at the little bent figure with the glowing face, and shrank back at the size and savage aspect of the great dog at his heels.
But what cared he? His Wullie was acknowledged champion, the best sheep-dog of the year; and the little man was happy. They could turn their backs on him; but they could not alter that; and he could afford to be indifferent. “They dinna like it, lad—he! he! But they'll e'en ha' to thole it. Ye've won it, Wullie—won it fair.”
He elbowed through the press, making for the rope-guarded inclosure in front of the committee tent, round which the people were now packing. In the door of the tent stood the secretary, various stewards, and members of the committee. In front, alone in the roped-off space, was Lady Eleanour, fragile, dainty, graceful, waiting with a smile upon her face to receive the winner. And on a table beside her, naked and dignified, the Shepherd's Trophy.
There it stood, kingly and impressive; its fair white sides inscribed with many names; cradled in three shepherds' crooks; and on the top, as if to guard the Cup's contents, an exquisitely carved collie's head. The Shepherds' Trophy, the goal of his life's race, and many another man's.
He climbed over the rope, followed by Red Wull, and took off his hat with almost courtly deference to the fair lady before him.
As he walked up to the table on which the Cup stood, a shrill voice, easily recognizable, broke the silence.
“You'd like it better if 'twas full and yo' could swim in it, you and yer Wullie,” it called. Whereat the crowd giggled, and Lady Eleanour looked indignant.
The little man turned.
“I'll mind drink yer health, Mr. Thornton, never fear, though I ken ye'd prefaire to drink yer ain,” he said. At which the crowd giggled afresh; and a gray head at the back, which had hoped itself unrecognized, disappeared suddenly.
The little man stood there in the stillness, sourly smiling, his face still wet from his exertions; while the Tailless Tyke at his side fronted defiantly the serried ring of onlookers, a white fence of teeth faintly visible between his lips.
Lady Eleanour looked uneasy. Usually the lucky winner was unable to hear her little speech, as she gave the Cup away, so deafening was the applause. Now there was utter silence. She glanced up at the crowd, but there was no response to her unspoken appeal in that forest of hostile faces. And her gentle heart bled for the forlorn little man before her. To make it up she smiled on him so sweetly as to more than compensate him.
“I'm sure you deserve your success, Mr. M'Adam,” she said. “You and Red Wull there worked splendidly—everybody says so.”
“I've heard naethin' o't,” the little man answered dryly. At which some one in the crowd sniggered.
“And we all know what a grand dog he is; though”—with a reproving smile as she glanced at Red Wull's square, truncated stern—“he's not very polite.”
“His heart is good, your Leddyship, if his manners are not,” M'Adam answered, smiling.
“Liar!” came a loud voice in the silence. Lady Eleanour looked up, hot with indignation, and half rose from her seat. But M'Adam merely smiled.
“Wullie, turn and mak' yer bow to the leddy,” he said. “They'll no hurt us noo we're up; it's when we're doon they'll flock like corbies to the carrion.”
At that Red Wull walked up to Lady Eleanour, faintly wagging his tail; and she put her hand on his huge bull head and said, “Dear old Ugly!” at which the crowd cheered in earnest.
After that, for some moments, the only sound was the gentle ripple of the good lady's voice and the little man's caustic replies.
“Why, last winter the country was full of Red Wull's doings and yours. It was always M'Adam and his Red Wull have done this and that and the other. I declare I got quite tired of you both, I heard such a lot about you.”
The little man, cap in hand, smiled, blushed and looked genuinely pleased.
“And when it wasn't you it was Mr. Moore and Owd Bob.”
“Owd Bob, bless him!” called a stentorian voice. “There cheers for oor Bob!”
“'Ip! 'ip! 'ooray!” It was taken up gallantly, and cast from mouth to mouth; and strangers, though they did not understand, caught the contagion and cheered too; and the uproar continued for some minutes.
When it was ended Lady Eleanour was standing up, a faint flush on her cheeks and her eyes flashing dangerously, like a queen at bay.
“Yes,” she cried, and her clear voice thrilled through the air like a trumpet. “Yes; and now three cheers for Mr. M'Adam and his Red Wull! Hip! hip—”
“Hooray!” A little knowt of stalwarts at the back—James Moore, Parson Leggy, Jim Mason, and you may be sure in heart, at least, Owd Bob—responded to the call right lustily. The crowd joined in; and, once off, cheered and cheered again.
“Three cheers more for Mr. M'Adam!”
But the little man waved to them.
“Dinna be bigger heepocrites than ye can help,” he said. “Ye've done enough for one day, and thank ye for it.”
Then Lady Eleanour handed him the Cup.
“Mr. M'Adam, I present you with the Champion Challenge Dale Cup, open to all comers. Keep it, guard it, love it as your own, and win it again if you can. Twice more and it's yours, you know, and it will stop forever beneath the shadow of the Pike. And the right place for it, say I—the Dale Cup for Dalesmen.”
The little man took the Cup tenderly.
“It shall no leave the Estate or ma hoose, yer Leddyship, gin Wullie and I can help it,” he said emphatically.
Lady Eleanour retreated into the tent, and the crowd swarmed over the ropes and round the little man, who held the Cup beneath his arm.
Long Kirby laid irreverent hands upon it.
“Dinna finger it!” ordered M'Adam.
“Shall!''
“Shan't! Wullie, keep him aff.” Which the great dog proceeded to do amid the laughter of the onlookers.
Among the last, James Moore was borne past the little man. At sight of him, M'Adam's face assumed an expression of intense concern.
“Man, Moore!” he cried, peering forward as though in alarm; “man, Moore, ye're green—positeevely verdant. Are ye in pain?” Then, catching sight of Owd Bob, he started back in affected horror.
“And, ma certes! so's yer dog! Yer dog as was gray is green. Oh, guid life! “—and he made as though about to fall fainting to the ground.
Then, in bantering tones: “Ah, but ye shouldna covet ——”
“He'll ha' no need to covet it long, I can tell yo',” interposed Tammas's shrill accents.
“And why for no?”
“Becos next year he'll win it fra yo'. Oor Bob'll win it, little mon. Why? thot's why.”
The retort was greeted with a yell of applause from the sprinkling of Dalesmen in the crowd.
But M'Adam swaggered away into the tent, his head up, the Cup beneath his arm, and Red Wull guarding his rear.
“First of a' ye'll ha' to beat Adam M'Adam and his Red Wull!” he cried back proudly.
M'ADAM'S pride in the great Cup that now graced his kitchen was supreme. It stood alone in the very centre of the mantelpiece, just below the old bell-mouthed blunderbuss that hung upon the wall. The only ornament in the bare room, it shone out in its silvery chastity like the moon in a gloomy sky.
For once the little man was content. Since his mother's death David had never known such peace. It was not that his father became actively kind; rather that he forgot to be actively unkind.
“Not as I care a brazen button one way or t'ither,” the boy informed Maggie.
“Then yo' should,” that proper little person replied.
M'Adam was, indeed, a changed being. He forgot to curse James Moore; he forgot to sneer at Owd Bob; he rarely visited the Sylvester Arms, to the detriment of Jem Burton's pocket and temper; and he was never drunk.
“Soaks 'isseif at home, instead,” suggested Tammas, the prejudiced. But the accusation was untrue.
“Too drunk to git so far,” said Long Kirby, kindly man.
“I reck'n the Cup is kind o' company to him,” said Jim Mason. “Happen it's lonesomeness as drives him here so much.” And happen you were right, charitable Jim.
“Best mak' maist on it while he has it, 'cos he'll not have it for long,” Tammas remarked amid applause.
Even Parson Leggy allowed—rather reluctantly, indeed, for he was but human—that the little man was changed wonderfully for the better.
“But I am afraid it may not last,” he said. “We shall see what happens when Owd Bob beats him for the Cup, as he certainly will. That'll be the critical moment.”
As things were, the little man spent all his spare moments with the Cup between his knees, burnishing it and crooning to Wullie:
“I never saw a fairer,I never lo'ed a dearer,And neist my heart I'll wear her,For fear my jewel tine.”
“There, Wullie! look at her! is she no bonnie? She shines like a twinkle—twinkle in the sky.” And he would hold it out at arm's length, his head cocked sideways the better to scan its bright beauties.
The little man was very jealous for his treasure. David might not touch it; might not smoke in the kitchen lest the fumes should tarnish its glory; while if he approached too closely he was ordered abruptly away.
“As if I wanted to touch his nasty Cup!” he complained to Maggie. “I'd sooner ony day—”
“Hands aff, Mr. David, immediate!” she cried indignantly. “'Pertinence, indeed!” as she tossed her head clear of the big fingers that were fondling her pretty hair.
So it was that M'Adam, on coming quietly into the kitchen one day, was consumed with angry resentment to find David actually handling the object of his reverence; and the manner of his doing it added a thousandfold to the offence.
The boy was lolling indolently against the mantelpiece, his fair head shoved right into the Cup, his breath dimming its lustre, and his two hands, big and dirty, slowly revolving it before his eyes.
Bursting with indignation, the little man crept up behind the boy. David was reading through the long list of winners.
“Theer's the first on 'em,” he muttered, shooting out his tongue to indicate the locality: “'Andrew Moore's Rough, 178—.' And theer agin—' James Moore's Pinch, 179—.' And agin—'Beck, 182—.' Ah, and theer's 'im Tammas tells on! 'Rex, 183—,' and Rex, 183—.' Ay, but he was a rare un by all tell-in's! If he'd nob'but won but onst agin! Ah, and theer's none like the Gray Dogs—they all says that, and I say so masel'; none like the Gray Dogs o' Kenmuir, bless 'em! And we'll win agin too—” he broke off short; his eye had travelled down to the last name on the list.
“'M'Adam's Wull'!” he read with unspeakable contempt, and put his great thumb across the name as though to wipe it out. “'M'Adam's Wull'! Goo' gracious sakes! P-hg-h-r-r! “—and he made a motion as though to spit upon the ground.
But a little shoulder was into his side, two small fists were beating at his chest, and a shrill voice was yelling: “Devil! devil! stan' awa'!”—and he was tumbled precipitately away from the mantelpiece, and brought up abruptly against the side-wall.
The precious Cup swayed on its ebony stand, the boy's hands, rudely withdrawn, almost overthrowing it. But the little man's first impulse, cursing and screaming though he was, was to steady it.
“'M'Adam's Wull'! I wish he was here to teach ye, ye snod-faced, ox-limbed profleegit!” he cried, standing in front of the Cup, his eyes blazing.
“Ay, 'M'Adam's Wull'! And why not 'M'Adam's Wull'? Ha' ye ony objections to the name?”
“I didn't know yo' was theer,” said David, a thought sheepishly.
“Na; or ye'd not ha' said it.”
“I'd ha' thought it, though,” muttered the boy.
Luckily, however, his father did not hear. He stretched his hands up tenderly for the Cup, lifted it down, and began reverently to polish the dimmed sides with his handkerchief.
“Ye're thinkin', nae doot,” he cried, casting up a vicious glance at David, “that Wullie's no gude enough to ha' his name alangside o' they cursed Gray Dogs. Are ye no? Let's ha' the truth for aince—for a diversion.”
“Reck'n he's good enough if there's none better,” David replied dispassionately.
“And wha should there be better? Tell me that, ye muckle gowk.”
David smiled.
“Eh, but that'd be long tellin', he said.
“And what wad ye mean by that?” his father cried.
“Nay; I was but thinkin' that Mr. Moore's Bob'll look gradely writ under yon.” He pointed to the vacant space below Red Wull's name.
The little man put the Cup back on its pedestal with hurried hands. The handkerchief dropped unconsidered to the floor; he turned and sprang furiously at the boy, who stood against the wall, still smiling; and, seizing him by the collar of his coat, shook him to and fro with fiery energy.
“So ye're hopin', prayin', nae doot, that James Moore—curse him!—will win ma Cup awa' from me, yer ain dad. I wonder ye're no 'shamed to crass ma door! Ye live on me; ye suck ma blood, ye foul-mouthed leech. Wullie and me brak' oorsel's to keep ye in hoose and hame—and what's yer gratitude? Ye plot to rob us of oor rights.”
He dropped the boy's coat and stood back.
“No rights about it,” said David, still keeping his temper.
“If I win is it no ma right as muckle as ony Englishman's?”
Red Wull, who had heard the rising voices, came trotting in, scowled at David, and took his stand beside his master.
“Ah,ifyo' win it,” said David, with significant emphasis on the conjunction.
“And wha's to beat us?”
David looked at his father in well-affected surprise.
“I tell yo' Owd Bob's rinin',” he answered.
“And what if he is?” the other cried.
“Why, even yo' should know so much,” the boy sneered.
The little man could not fail to understand.
“So that's it!” he said. Then, in a scream, with one finger pointing to the great dog: “And what o' him? What'll ma Wullie be doin' the while? Tell me that, and ha' a care! Mind ye, he stan's here hearkenin'!” And, indeed, the Tailless Tyke was bristling for battle.
David did not like the look of things; and edged away toward the door.
“What'll Wullie be doin', ye chicken-hearted brock?” his father cried.
“Im?” said the boy, now close on the door. “Im!” he said, with a slow contempt that made the red bristles quiver on the dog's neck. “Lookin' on, I should think—lookin' on. What else is he fit for? I tell yo' oor Bob—”
“—'Oor Bob'!” screamed the little man darting forward. “'Oor Bob'! Hark to him. I'll 'oor—' At him, Wullie! at him!”
But the Tailless Tyke needed no encouragement. With a harsh roar he sprang through the air, only to crash against the closing door!
The outer door banged, and in another second a mocking finger tapped on the windowpane.
“Better luck to the two on yo' next time!” laughed a scornful voice; and David ran down the hill toward Kenmuir.
FROM that hour the fire of M'Adam's jealousy blazed into a mighty flame. The winning of the Dale Cup had become a mania with him. He had won it once, and would again despite all the Moores, all the Gray Dogs, all the undutiful sons in existence; on that point he was resolved. The fact of his having tasted the joys of victory served to whet his desire. And now he felt he could never be happy till the Cup was his own—won outright.
At home David might barely enter the room There the trophy stood.
“I'll not ha' ye touch ma Cup, ye dirty-fingered, ill-begotten wastrel. Wullie and me won it—you'd naught to do wi' it. Go you to James Moore and James Moore's dog.”
“Ay, and shall I tak' Cup wi' me? or will ye bide till it's took from ye?”
So the two went on; and every day the tension approached nearer breaking-point.
In the Dale the little man met with no sympathy. The hearts of the Dalesmen were to a man with Owd Bob and his master.
Whereas once at the Sylvester Arms his shrill, ill tongue had been rarely still, now he maintained a sullen silence; Jem Burton, at least, had no cause of complaint. Crouched away in a corner, with Red Wull beside him, the little man would sit watching and listening as the Dalesmen talked of Owd Bob's doings, his staunchness, sagacity, and coming victory.
Sometimes he could restrain himself no longer. Then he would spring to his feet, and stand, a little swaying figure, and denounce them passionately in almost pathetic eloquence. These orations always concluded in set fashion.
“Ye're all agin us!” the little man would cry in quivering voice.
“We are that,” Tammas would answer complacently.
“Fair means or foul, ye're content sae lang as Wullie and me are beat. I wonder ye dinna poison him—a little arsenic, and the way's clear for your Bob.”
“'The way is clear enough wi'oot that,” from Tammas caustically.
Then a lengthy silence, only broken by that exceeding bitter cry: “Eh, Wullie, Wullie, they're all agin us!”
And always the rivals—red and gray—went about seeking their opportunity. But the Master, with his commanding presence and stern eyes, was ever ready for them. Toward the end, M'Adam, silent and sneering, would secretly urge on Red Wull to the attack; until, one day in Grammoch-town, James Moore turned on him, his blue eyes glittering. “D'yo' think, yo' little fule,” he cried in that hard voice of his, “that onst they got set we should iver git either of them off alive?” It seemed to strike the little man as a novel idea; for, from that moment, he was ever the first in his feverish endeavors to oppose his small form, buffer-like, between the would-be combatants.
Curse as M'Adam might, threaten as he might, when the time came Owd Bob won.
The styles of the rivals were well contrasted: the patience, the insinuating eloquence, combined with the splendid dash, of the one; and the fierce, driving fury of the other.
The issue was never in doubt. It may have been that the temper of the Tailless Tyke gave in the time of trial; it may have been that his sheep were wild, as M'Adam declared; certainly not, as the little man alleged in choking voice, that they had been chosen and purposely set aside to ruin his chance. Certain it is that his tactics scared them hopelessly: and he never had them in hand.
Act for Owd Bob, his dropping, his driving, his penning, aroused the loud-tongued admiration of crowd and competitors alike. He was patient yet persistent, quiet yet firm, and seemed to coax his charges in the right way in that inimitable manner of his own.
When, at length, the verdict was given, and it was known that, after an interval of half a century, the Shepherds' Trophy was won again by a Gray Dog of Kenmuir, there was such a scene as has been rarely witnessed on the slope behind the Dalesman's Daughter.
Great fists were slapped on mighty backs; great feet were stamped on the sun-dried banks of the Silver Lea; stalwart lungs were strained to their uttermost capacity; and roars of “Moore!” “Owd Bob o' Kenmuir!” “The Gray Dogs!” thundered up the hillside, and were flung, thundering, back.
Even James Moore was visibly moved as he worked his way through the cheering mob; and Owd Bob, trotting alongside him in quiet dignity, seemed to wave his silvery brush in acknowledgment.
Master Jacky Sylvester alternately turned cart-wheels and felled the Hon. Launcelot Bilks to the ground. Lady Eleanour, her cheeks flushed with pleasure, waved her parasol, and attempted to restrain her son's exuberance. Parson Leggy danced an unclerical jig, and shook hands with the squire till both those fine old gentlemen were purple in the face. Long Kirby selected a small man in the crowd, and bashed his hat down over his eyes. While Tammas, Rob Saunderson, Tupper, Hoppin, Londesley, and the rest joined hands and went raving round like so many giddy girls.
Of them all, however, none was so uproarious in the mad heat of his enthusiasm as David M'Adam. He stood in the Kenmuir wagon beside Maggie, a conspicuous figure above the crowd, as he roared in hoarse ecstasy:
“Weel done, oor Bob! Weel done, Mr. Moore! Yo've knocked him! Knock him agin! Owd Bob o' Kenmuir! Moore! Moore o' Kenmuir! Hip! Hip!” until the noisy young giant attracted such attention in his boisterous delight that Maggie had to lay a hand upon his arm to restrain his violence.
Alone, on the far bank of the stream, stood the vanquished pair.
The little man was trembling slightly; his face was still hot from his exertions; and as he listened to the ovation accorded to his conqueror, there was a piteous set grin upon his face. In front stood the defeated dog, his lips wrinkling and hackles rising, as he, too, saw and heard and understood.
“It's a gran' thing to ha' a dutiful son. Wullie,” the little man whispered, watching David's waving figure. “He's happy—and so are they a'—not sae much that James Moore has won, as that you and I are beat.”
Then, breaking down for a moment:
“Eh, Wullie, Wullie! They're all agin us. It's you and I alane, lad.”
Again, seeing the squire followed by Parson Leggy, Viscount Birdsaye, and others of the gentry, forcing their way through the press to shake hands with the victor, he continued:
“It's good to be in wi' the quality, Wullie. Niver mak' a friend of a man beneath ye in rank, nor an enemy of a man aboon ye: that's a soond principle, Wullie, if ye'd get on in honest England.”
He stood there, alone with his dog, watching the crowd on the far slope as it surged upward in the direction of the committee tent. Only when the black mass had packed itself in solid phalanges about that ring, inside which, just a year ago, he had stood in very different circumstances, and was at length still, a wintry smile played for a moment about his lips. He laughed a mirthless laugh.
“Bide a wee, Wullie—he! he! Bide a wee.'The best-laid schemes o' mice and menGang aft agley.'”
As he spoke, there came down to him, above the tumult, a faint cry of mingled surprise and anger. The cheering ceased abruptly. There was silence; then there burst on the stillness a hurricane of indignation.
The crowd surged forward, then turned. Every eye was directed across the stream. A hundred damning fingers pointed at the solitary figure there. There were hoarse yells of: “There he be Yon's him! What's he done wi' it? Thief! Throttle him!”
The mob came lumbering down the slope like one man, thundering their imprecations on a thousand throats. They looked dangerous, and their wrath was stimulated by the knot of angry Dalesmen who led the van. There was more than one white face among the women at the top of the slope as they watched the crowd blundering blindly down the hill. There were more men than Parson Leggy, the squire, James Moore, and the local constables in the thick of it all, striving frantically with voice and gesture, ay, and stick too, to stem the advance.
It was useless; on the dark wave rolled, irresistible.
On the far bank stood the little man, motionless, awaiting them with a grin upon his face. And a little farther in front was the Tailless Tyke, his back and neck like a new-shorn wheat-field, as he rumbled a vast challenge.
“Come on, gentlemen!” the little man cried. “Come on! I'll bide for ye, never fear. Ye're a thousand to one and a dog. It's the odds ye like, Englishmen a'.”
And the mob, with murder in its throat, accepted the invitation and came on.
At the moment, however, from the slope above, clear above the tramp of the multitude, a great voice bellowed: “Way! Way! Way for Mr. Trotter!” The advancing host checked and opened out; and the secretary of the meeting bundled through.
He was a small, fat man, fussy at any time, and perpetually perspiring. Now his face was crimson with rage and running; he gesticulated wildly; vague words bubbled forth, as his short legs twinkled down the slope.
The crowd paused to admire. Some one shouted a witticism, and the crowd laughed. For the moment the situation was saved.
The fat secretary hurried on down the slope, unheeding of any insult but the one. He bounced over the plank-bridge: and as he came closer, M'Adam saw that in each hand brandished a brick.
“Hoots, man! dinna throw!” he cried, making a feint as though to turn in sudden terror.
“What's this? What's this?” gasped the secretary, waving his arms.
“Bricks, 'twad seem,” the other answered, staying his flight.
The secretary puffed up like a pudding in a hurry.
“Where's the Cup? Champion, Challenge, etc.,” he jerked out. “Mind, sir, you're responsible! wholly responsible! Dents, damages, delays! What's it all mean, sir? These—these monstrous creations “—he brandished the bricks, and M'Adam started back—“wrapped, as I live, in straw, sir, in the Cup case, sir! the Cup case! No Cup! Infamous! Disgraceful! Insult me—meeting—committee—every one! What's it mean, sir?” He paused to pant, his body filling and emptying like a bladder.
M'Adam approached him with one eye on the crowd, which was heaving forward again, threatening still, but sullen and silent.
“I pit 'em there,” he whispered; and drew back to watch the effect of his disclosure.
The secretary gasped.
“You—you not only do this—amazing thing—these monstrosities”—he hurled the bricks furiously on the unoffending ground—“but you dare to tell me so!”
The little man smiled.
“'Do wrang and conceal it, do right and confess it,' that's Englishmen's motto, and mine, as a rule; but this time I had ma reasons.”
“Reasons, sir! No reasons can justify such an extraordinary breach of all the—the decencies. Reasons? the reasons of a maniac. Not to say more, sir. Fraudulent detention—fraudulent, I say, sir! What were your precious reasons?”
The mob with Tammas and Long Kirby at their head had now well nigh reached the plank-bridge. They still looked dangerous, and there were isolated cries of:
“Duck him!”
“Chuck him in!”
“An' the dog!”
“Wi' one o' they bricks about their necks!”
“There are my reasons!” said M'Adam, pointing to the forest of menacing faces. “Ye see I'm no beloved amang yonder gentlemen, and”—in a stage whisper in the other's ear—“I thocht maybe I'd be 'tacked on the road.”
Tammas foremost of the crowd, had now his foot upon the first plank.
“Ye robber! ye thief! Wait till we set hands on ye, you and yer gorilla!” he called.
M'Adam half turned.
“Wullie,” he said quietly, “keep the bridge.”
At the order the Tailless Tyke shot gladly forward, and the leaders on the bridge as hastily back. The dog galloped on to the rattling plank, took his post fair and square in the centre of the narrow way, and stood facing the hostile crew like Cerberus guarding the gates of hell: his bull-head was thrust forward, hackles up, teeth glinting, and a distant rumbling in his throat, as though daring them to come on.
“Yo' first, ole lad!” said Tammas, hopping agilely behind Long Kirby.
“Nay; the old uns lead!” cried the big smith, his face gray-white. He wrenched round, pinned the old man by the arms, and held him forcibly before him as a covering shield. There ensued an unseemly struggle betwixt the two valiants, Tammas bellowing and kicking in the throes of mortal fear.
“Jim Mason'll show us,” he suggested at last.
“Nay,” said honest Jim; “I'm fear'd.” He could say it with impunity; for the pluck of Postie Jim was a matter long past dispute.
Then Jem Burton'd go first?
Nay; Jem had a lovin' wife and dear little kids at 'ome.
Then Big Bell?
Big Bell'd see 'isseif further first.
A tall figure came forcing through the crowd, his face a little paler than its wont, and a formidable knob-kerry in his hand.
“I'm goin'!” said David.
“But yo're not,” answered burly Sam'l, gripping the boy from behind with arms like the roots of an oak. “Your time'll coom soon enough by the look on yo' wi' niver no hurry.”
And the sense of the Dalesmen was with the big man; for, as old Rob Saunderson said:
“I reck'n he'd liefer claw on to your throat, lad, nor ony o' oors.”
As there was no one forthcoming to claim the honor of the lead, Tammas came forward with cunning counsel.
“Tell yo' what, lads, we'd best let 'em as don't know nowt at all aboot him go first. And onst they're on, mind, we winna let 'em off; but keep a-shovin' and a-bovin 'on 'em forra'd.Thenus'll foller.”
By this time there was a little naked space of green round the bridge-head, like a fairy circle, into which the uninitiated might not penetrate. Round this the mob hedged: the Dalesmen in front, striving knavishly back and bawling to those behind to leggo that shovin'; and these latter urging valorously forward, yelling jeers and contumely at the front rank. “Come on! 'O's afraid? Lerrus through to 'em, then, ye Royal Stan'-backs!”—for well they knew the impossibility of their demand.
And as they wedged and jostled thus, there stole out from their midst as gallant a champion as ever trod the grass. He trotted out into the ring, the observed of all, and paused to gaze at the gaunt figure on the bridge. The sun lit the sprinkling of snow on the dome of his head; one forepaw was off the ground; and he stood there, royally alert, scanning his antagonist.
“Th' Owd Un!” went up in a roar fit to split the air as the hero of the day was recognized. And the Dalesmen gave a pace forward spontaneously as the gray knight-errant stole across the green.
“Oor Bob'll fetch him!” they roared, their blood leaping to fever heat, and gripped their sticks, determined in stern reality to follow now.
The gray champion trotted up on to the bridge, and paused again, the long hair about his neck rising like a ruff, and a strange glint in his eyes; and the holder of the bridge never moved. Red and Gray stood thus, face to face: the one gay yet resolute, the other motionless, his great head slowly sinking between his forelegs, seemingly petrified.
There was no shouting now: it was time for deeds, not words. Only, above the stillness, came a sound from the bridge like the snore of a giant in his sleep, and blending, with it, a low, deep, purring thunder like some monster cat well pleased.
“Wullie,” came a solitary voice from the far side, “keep the bridge!”
One ear went back, one ear was still forward; the great head was low and lower between his forelegs and the glowing eyes rolled upward so that the watchers could see the murderous white.
Forward the gray dog stepped.
Then, for the second time that afternoon, a voice, stern and hard, came ringing down from the slope above over the heads of the many.
“Bob, lad, coom back!”
“He! he! I thocht that was comin',” sneered the small voice over the stream.
The gray dog heard, and checked.
“Bob, lad, coom in, I say!”
At that he swung round and marched slowly back, gallant as he had come, dignified still in his mortification.
And Red Wull threw back his head and bellowed a paean of victory—challenge, triumph, scorn, all blended in that bull-like, blood-chilling blare.
In the mean time, M'Adam and the secretary had concluded their business. It had been settled that the Cup was to be delivered over to James Moore not later than the following Saturday.
“Saturday, see! at the latest!” the secretary cried as he turned and trotted off.
“Mr. Trotter,” M'Adam called after him. “I'm sorry, but ye maun bide this side the Lea till I've reached the foot o' the Pass. Gin they gentlemen”—nodding toward the crowd—“should set hands on me, why—” and he shrugged his shoulders significantly. “Forbye, Wullie's keepin' the bridge.”
With that the little man strolled off leisurely; now dallying to pick a flower, now to wave a mocking hand at the furious mob, and so slowly on to the foot of the Muirk Muir Pass.
There he turned and whistled that shrill peculiar note.
“Wullie, Wullie, to me!” he called.
At that, with one last threat thrown at the' thousand souls he had held at bay for thirty minutes, the Tailless Tyke swung about and galloped after his lord.