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Updated: May 18, 2025
The little man sat alone with Red Wull, exchanging words with no man, drinking steadily, brooding over his wrongs, only now and again galvanized into sudden action. Other people than Tammas Thornton came to the conclusion that M'Adam would stop at nothing in the undoing of James Moore or the gray dog. They said drink and disappointment had turned his head; that he was mad and dangerous.
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?
And that is why, on the following market day, Herbert Trotter, journalist, erstwhile gentleman, and Secretary of the Dale Trials, found himself trying to swim in the public horse-trough. "What? What be sayin', mon?" cried old Jonas, startled out of his usual apathy. M'Adam turned sharply on the old man. "I said the wumman wears a muckle hat!" he snapped.
Adam M'Adam and his Red Wull lie buried together: one just within, the other just without, the consecrated pale. The only mourners at the funeral were David, James Moore, Maggie, and a gray dog peering through the lych-gate.
"M'Adam wins! Five to four M'Adam! I lay agin Owd Bob!" rang out a clear voice in the silence. Through the gap they rattled, ears back, feet twinkling like the wings of driven grouse. "He's lost 'em! They'll break! They're away!" was the cry.
And apart from the others, standing as though in irony beneath the frown of one of those steel-clad warriors who held the door, was little M'Adam, puny always, paltry now, mocking his manhood. The door at the far end of the hall opened, and the squire entered, beaming on every one. "Here you are eh, eh! How are you all? Glad to see ye! Good-day, James! Good-day, Saunderson! Good-day to you all!
The name macadam is often used now to denote the material used in making roads. Sometimes this material is of a sort which John M'Adam would not have approved of at all, for he did not believe in pouring a fluid material over the stones, or in the heavy rollers which are now often used in making new roads.
Of late the contest had raged markedly fierce; for M'Adam noticed his son's more frequent presence at home, and commented on the fact in his usual spirit of playful raillery. "What's come to ye, David?" he asked one day. "Yer auld dad's head is nigh turned wi' yer condescension.
M'Adam answered, eyeing the dark track on the floor. Then he put on his coat. "Na, na, he's no for me. Weel, I'll no detain ye. Good-nicht to ye, mister!" and he made for the door. "A gran' worker he'll be," called the drover after him. "Ay; muckle wark he'll mak' amang the sheep wi' sic a jaw and sic a temper. Weel, I maun be steppin'. Good-nicht to ye." "Ye'll niver have sich anither chanst."
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.
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