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Updated: May 2, 2025
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.
When the two met, as they often must, it was always M'Adam's endeavor to betray his enemy into an unworthy expression of feeling. But James Moore, sorely tried as he often was, never gave way. He met the little man's sneers with a quelling silence, looking down on his asp-tongued antagonist with such a contempt flashing from his blue-gray eyes as hurt his adversary more than words.
Only last year at the Trials he killed the young Cossack dog." A dull flash of passion swept across M'Adam's face. "Come here, Wullie!" he called. "Gin yon Hielant tyke attacks ye agin, ye're to be disqualified." He was unheeded. The battle for the Cup had begun little Pip leading the dance. On the opposite slope the babel had subsided now.
A sense of humor is many a man's salvation, and was M'Adam's one redeeming feature. The laughableness of the thing this ferocious atomy defying him struck home to the little man. Delighted at such a display of vice in so tender a plant, he fell to chuckling. "Ye leetle devil!" he laughed. "He! he! ye leetle devil!" and flipped together finger and thumb in vain endeavor to coax the puppy to him.
"I did have him, but ye tore me aff," A pause again. "Where's yer gray dog?" This time the challenge was unmistakable. "I sent him after the Killer. Wheer's your Red Wull?" "At hame, as I tell't ye before." "Yo' mean yo' left him there?" M'Adam's fingers twitched. "He's where I left him." James Moore shrugged his shoulders. And the other began: "When did yer dog leave ye?"
M'Adam's inspection was as minute as it was apparently absorbing; he omitted nothing from the square muzzle to the lozenge-like scut. And every now and then he threw a quick glance at the man at the window, who was watching the careful scrutiny a thought uneasily. "Ye've cut him short," he said at length, swinging round on the drover.
At M'Adam's yell, James Moore had turned. "Served yo' properly!" he called back. "He'll larn ye yet it's not wise to tamper wi' a gray dog or his sheep. Not the first time he's downed ye, I'm thinkin'!" The little man raised himself painfully to his elbow and crawled toward the gate. The Master, up the lane, could hear him cursing as he dragged himself.
The best sheep-dog as iver penned a flock Adam M'Adam's Red Wull!" He pauses, the pewter at his lips, and looks at his audience with flashing eyes. There is no response from them. "Wullie, here's to you!" he cries. "Luck and life to ye, ma trusty fier! Death and defeat to yer enemies!" "'The warld's warld's wrack we share o't, The warstle and the care o't;"
Then, leaning forward in his chair and glaring at the girl, "Ay, and mair than that! The night the lad set on me he cam'" with hissing emphasis "straight from Kenmuir!" He paused and stared at her intently, and she was still dumb before him. "Gin I'd ben killed, Wullie'd ha' bin disqualified from competin' for the Cup. With Adam M'Adam's Red Wull oot o' the way noo d'ye see? Noo d'ye onderstan'?"
David strode forward; there was murder in his face. The little man saw it: his time was come; but his bitterest foe never impugned Adam M'Adam's courage. He stood huddled in the corner, all dishevelled, nursing one arm with the other, entirely unafraid. "Mind, David," he said, quite calm, "murder 'twill be, not manslaughter."
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