"Ye should ken, Mrs. Moore," the little man answered, a thought bitterly; "ye see enough of him.""Yo' mun be main proud of un, mester," the woman continued, heedless of the sneer: "an' 'im growin' such a gradely lad."M'Adam shrugged his shoulders.
"I barely ken the lad," he said. "By sight I know him, of course, but barely to speak to. He's but seldom at hame.""An' hoo proud his mother'd be if she could see him," the woman continued, well aware of his one tender place. "Eh, but she was fond o' him, so she was."An angry flush stole over the little man's face. Well he understood the implied rebuke; and it hurt him like a knife.
"Ay, ay, Mrs. Moore," he began. Then breaking off, and looking about him-- "Where's ma Wullie?" he cried excitedly. "James Moore!" whipping round on the Master, "ma Wullie's gone--gone, Isay!"
Elizabeth Moore turned away indignantly. "I do declar' he tak's more fash after yon little yaller beastie than iver he does after his own flesh," she muttered.
"Wullie, ma we doggie! Wullie, where are ye? James Moore, he's gone--ma Wullie's gone!" cried the little man, running about the yard, searching everywhere.
"Cannot 'a' gotten far," said the Master, reassuringly, looking about him.
"Niver no tellin'," said Sam'l, appearing on the scene, pig-bucket in hand. "I inisdoot yo'll iver see your dog agin, mister." He turned sorrowfully to M'Adam.
That little man, all dishevelled, and with the perspiration standing on his face, came hurrying out of the cow-shed and danced up to the Master.
"It's robbed I am--robbed, I tell ye!" he cried recklessly. "Ma wee Wull's bin stolen while I was ben your hoose, James Moore!""Yo' munna say that, ma mon. No robbin' at Kenmuir," the Master answered sternly.
"Then where is he? It's for you to say."
"I've ma own idee, I 'aye," Sam'l announced opportunely, pig-bucket uplifted.
M'Adam turned on him.
"What, man? What is it?"
"I misdoot yo'll iver see your dog agin, mister," Sam'l repeated, as if he was supplying the key to the mystery.
"Noo, Sam'l, if yo' know owt tell it, "ordered his master.
Sam'l grunted sulkily.
"Wheer's oor Bob, then?" he asked.
At that M'Adam turned on the Master.
'Tis that, nae doot. It's yer gray dog, James Moore, yer--dog. Imight ha' kent it, "--and he loosed off a volley of foul words.
"Sweerin' will no find him," said the Master coldly. "Noo, Sam'l."The big man shifted his feet, and looked mournfully at M'Adam.
'Twas 'appen 'aif an hour agone, when I sees oor Bob goin' oot o'
yard wi' little yaller tyke in his mouth. In a minnit I looks agin--and theer! little yaller 'Un was gone, and oor Bob a-sittin' a-lickin'
his chops. Gone for-iver, I do reck'n. 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 am man.""Nonsense," said the Master encouragingly. " 'Tis but yon girt oof."Sam'l tossed his head and snorted.
"Coom, then, and i'll show yo'," he said, and led the way out of the yard. And there below them on the slope to the stream, sitting like Justice at the Courts of Law, was Owd Bob.
Straightway Sam'l whose humor was something of the calibre of old Ross's, the sexton, burst into horse-merriment. "Why's he sit-tin' so still, think 'ee? Ho! Ho! See un lickin' his chops--ha! ha!
"--and he roared afresh. While from afar you could hear the distant rumbling of 'Enry and oor Job.
At the sight, M'Adam burst into a storm of passionate invective, and would have rushed on the dog had not James Moore forcibly restrained him.
