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The precious Cup swayed on its ebony stand, the boy's hands, rudely withdrawn, almost overthrowing it.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.
And the back of the year's work broken, and her master well started on a fresh season, M'Adam's old collie, Cuttie Sark, lay down one evening and passed quietly away. The little black-and-tan lady, Parson Leggy used to say, had been the only thing on earth M'Adam cared for.
A roar went up from the crowd; Maggie's white face turned pink; and the Dalesmen mopped their wet brows. The mob surged forward, but the stewards held them back. "Back, please! Don't encroach! M'Adam's to come!" From the far bank the little man watched the scene.
"They've done ye at last, Wullie they've done ye at last," he said quietly; unalterably convinced that the attack had been organized while he was detained in the tap-room. On hearing the loved little voice, the dog gave one weary wag of his stump-tail. And with that the Tailless Tyke, Adam M'Adam's Red Wull, the Black Killer, went to his long home.
"Ye're no buyer; I knoo that all along by that face on ye," he said in insulting tones. "Ye wad ha' bought him yerseif', nae doot?" M'Adam inquired blandly. "In course; if you says so." "Or airblins ye bred him?" "'Appen I did." "Ye'll no be from these parts?" "Will I no?" answered the other. A smile of genuine pleasure stole over M'Adam's face. He laid his hand on the other's arm.
"Gin ye sae muckle as touched Wullie d'ye ken what I'd do, James Moore?" asked the little man very smoothly. "Yes sweer," the other replied, and strode out of the room amid a roar of derisive laughter at M'Adam's expense. Owd Bob had now attained wellnigh the perfection of his art. Parson Leggy declared roundly that his like had not been seen since the days of Rex son of Rally.
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!
At that the great dog raised himself, and placing his forepaws on his master's chest tenderly, lest he should hurt him who was already hurt past healing, stood towering above him; while the little man laid his two colds hands on the dog's shoulders. So they stood, looking at one another, like a man and his love. At M'Adam's word, Owd Bob looked up, and for the first time saw his master.
"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.
All four were travelling at a terrific rate; while the two flags were barely twenty yards in front, below the line of flight and almost parallel to it. To effect the turn a change of direction must be made almost through a right angle. "He's beat! he's beat! M'Adam's beat! Can't make it nohow!" was the roar. From over the stream a yell "Turn 'em, Wullie!"
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