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Updated: May 18, 2025
The sheep staggered, slipped, and fell. Almost before it had touched the water, M'Adam, his face afire and eyes flaming, was in the stream. In a second he had hold of the struggling creature, and, with an almost superhuman effort, had half thrown, half shoved it on to the bank. Again a tribute of admiration, led by James Moore.
Ah, yo' may well take on, Tammas Thornton!" For the old man was rolling about the yard, bent double with merriment. M'Adam turned on the Master with the resignation of despair. "Man, Moore," he cried piteously, "it's yer gray dog has murdered ma wee Wull! Ye have it from yer ain man." "Nonsense," said the Master encouragingly. "'Tis but yon girt oof." Sam'l tossed his head and snorted.
For days together David could not cross the Stony Bottom to Kenmuir. His enforced confinement to the Grange led, however, to no more frequent collisions than usual with his father. For M'Adam and Red Wull were out, at all hours, in all weathers, night and day, toiling at their work of salvation.
"Happen yo're not aware, M'Adam," he said sternly, "that, an' it had not bin for me, David'd ha' left you years agone and 'twould nob'but ha' served yo' right, I'm thinkin'." The little man was beaten on his own ground, so he changed front. "Dinna shout so, man I have ears to hear, Forbye ye irritate Wullie."
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.
At the shock, the blood gushed from his nose, and, mixing with the water on his face, ran down in vague red streams, dripping off his chin; while Red Wull, jerked from his grasp, was thrown afar, and lay motionless. "Curse ye!" M'Adam screamed, his face dead-white save for the running red about his jaw. "Curse ye for a cowardly Englishman!" and, struggling to his feet, he made at the Master.
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."
Maggie, wakened from a vivid dream of David chasing the police, hurried a shawl around her, and in a minute had the baby in her arms and was comforting her vaguely fearing the while that the police were after David. James Moore flung open a window, and, leaning out, looked down on the dishevelled figure below him. M'Adam heard the noise, glanced up, and saw his enemy.
Of them all, only M'Adam sat silent. He talked to no man, and you may be sure no one talked to him. His hand crept oftener to his glass than plate, till the sallow face began to flush, and the dim eyes to grow unnaturally bright. Toward the end of the meal there was loud tapping on the table, calls for silence, and men pushed back their chairs. The squire was on his feet to make his annual speech.
The squire rose hurriedly and left the room. After him, one by one, trailed the tenants. At length, two only remained M'Adam, sitting solitary with a long array of empty chairs on either hand; and, at the far end of the table, Parson Leggy, stern, upright, motionless. When the last man had left the room the parson rose, and with lips tight-set strode across the silent hall.
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