TAMMAS is on his feet in the tap-room of the Arms, brandishing a pewter mug.
"Gen'lemen!" he cries, his old face flushed; "I gie you a toast. Stan'
oop!"
The knot of Dalesmen round the fire rises like one. The old man waves his mug before him, reckless of the good ale that drips on to the floor.
"The best sheep-dog i' th' North--Owd Bob o' Kenmuir!" he cries.
In an instant there is uproar: the merry applause of clinking pewters; the stamping of feet; the rattle of sticks. Rob Saunderson and old Jonas are cheering with the best; Tupper and Ned Hoppin are bellowing in one another's ears; Long Kirby and Jem Burton are thumping each other on the back; even Sam'l Todd and Sexton Ross are roused from their habitual melancholy.
"Here's to Th' Owd Un! Here's to oor Bob!" yell stentorian voices;while Rob Saunderson has jumped on to a chair.
"Wi' the best sheep-dog i' th' North I gie yo' the Shepherd's Trophy!--won outreet as will be!" he cries. Instantly the clamor redoubles.
"The Dale Cup and Th' Owd Un! The Trophy and oor Bob! 'Ip, 'ip, for the gray dogs! 'Ip, 'ip, for the best sheep-dog as ever was or will be! 'Ooray, 'ooray!"It is some minutes before the noise subsides; and slowly the enthusiasts resume their seats with hoarse throats and red faces.
"Gentlemen a'!"
A little unconsidered man is standing up at the back of the room.
His face is aflame, and his hands twitch spasmodically; and, in front, with hackles up and eyes gleaming, is a huge, bull-like dog.
"Noo," cries the little man, "I daur ye to repeat that lie!""Lie!" screams Tammas; "lie! I'll gie 'im lie! Lemme at im', I say!"The old man in his fury is half over the surrounding ring of chairs before Jim Mason on the one hand and Jonas Maddox on the other can pull him back.
'Coom, Mr. Thornton," soothes the octogenarian, "let un be. Yo'
surely bain't angered by the likes o' 'im!"--and he jerks contemptuously toward the solitary figure at his back.
Tammas resumes his seat unwillingly.
The little man in the far corner of the room remains silent, waiting for his challenge to be taken up. It is in vain. And as he looks at the range of broad, impassive backs turned on him, he smiles bitterly.
"They dursen't Wullie, not a man of them a'!" he cries. "They're one--two--three--- four--eleven to one, Wullie, and yet they dursen't. Eleven of them, and every man a coward! Long Kirby--Thornton--Tupper--Todd--Hoppin--Ross--Burton--and the rest, and not one but's a bigger man nor me, and yet--Weel, we might ha' kent it. We should ha' kent Englishmen by noo. They're aye the same and aye have bin. They tell lies, black lies--"Tammas is again half out his chair and, only forcibly restrained by the men on either hand.
"--and then they ha' na the courage to stan' by 'em. Ye're English, ivery man o' ye, to yer marrow."The little man's voice rises as he speaks. He seizes the tankard from the table at his side.
"Englishmen!" he cries, waving it before him. "Here's a health!
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!
He raises the tankard and drains it to its uttermost dreg.
Then drawing himself up, he addresses his audience once more:
"An' noo I'll warn ye aince and for a', and ye may tell James Moore I said it: He may plot agin us, Wullie and me; he may threaten its;he may win the Cup outright for his muckle favorite; but there was niver a man or dog yet as did Adam M'Adam and his Red Wull a hurt but in the end he wush't his mither hadna borne him."A little later, and he walks out of the inn, the Tailless Tyke at his heels.
After he is gone it is Rob Saunderson who says: "The little mon's mad; he'll stop at nothin"; and Tammas who answers:
"Nay; not even murder."
The little man had aged much of late. His hair was quite white, his eyes unnaturally bright, and his hands were never still, as though he were in everlasting pain. He looked the picture of disease.
After Owd Bob's second victory he had become morose and untalkative. At home he often sat silent for hours together, drinking and glaring at the place where the Cup had been.
Sometimes he talked in low, eerie voice to Red Wull; and on two occasions, David, turning, suddenly, had caught his father glowering stealthily at him with such an expression on his face as chilled the boy's blood. The two never spoke now; and David held this silent, deadly enmity far worse than the old-time perpetual warfare.
It was the same at the Sylvester Arms. 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.
