Chapter IX. RIVALS
M'ADAM never forgave his son. After the scene on the evening of thefuneral there could be no alternative but war for all time. Thelittle man had attempted to humble himself, and been rejected; andthe bitterness of defeat, when he had deserved victory, rankled like apoisoned barb in his bosom.
Yet the heat of his indignation was directed not against David, butagainst the Master of Kenmuir. To the influence and agency of JamesMoore he attributed his discomfiture, and bore himself accordingly. Inpublic or in private, in tap-room or market, he never wearied of abusinghis enemy.
"Feel the loss o' his wife, d'ye say?" he would cry. "Ay, as muckle asI feel the loss o' my hair. James Moore can feel naethin', I tell ye,except, aiblins, a mischance to his meeserable dog."
When the two met, as they often must, it was always M'Adam's endeavorto betray his enemy into an unworthy expression of feeling. But JamesMoore, sorely tried as he often was, never gave way. He met the littleman's sneers with a quelling silence, looking down on his asp-tonguedantagonist with such a contempt flashing from his blue-gray eyes as hurthis adversary more than words.
Only once was he spurred into reply. It was in the tap-room ofthe Dalesman's Daughter on the occasion of the big spring fair inGrammoch-town, when there was a goodly gathering of farmers and theirdogs in the room.
M'Adam was standing at the fireplace with Red Wull at his side.
"It's a noble pairt ye play, James Moore," he cried loudly across theroom, "settin' son against father, and dividin' hoose against hoose.It's worthy o' ye we' yer churchgoin', and yer psalm-singin', and yergodliness."
The Master looked up from the far end of the room.
"Happen yo're not aware, M'Adam," he said sternly, "that, an' it had notbin 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."
The Tailless Tyke, indeed, had advanced from the fireplace, and nowstood, huge and hideous, in the very centre of the room. There wasdistant thunder in his throat, a threat upon his face, a challenge inevery wrinkle. And the Gray Dog stole gladly out from behind his masterto take up the gage of battle.
Straightway there was silence; tongues ceased to wag, tankards to clink.Every man and every dog was quietly gathering about those two centralfigures. Not one of them all but had his score to wipe off against theTailless Tyke; not one of them but was burning to join in, the battleonce begun. And the two gladiators stood looking past one another,muzzle to muzzle, each with a tiny flash of teeth glinting between hislips.
But the fight was not to be; for the twentieth time the Masterintervened.
"Bob, lad, coom in!" he called, and, bending, grasped his favorite bythe neck.
M'Adam laughed softly.
"Wullie, Wullie, to me!" he cried. "The look o' you's enough for thatgentleman."
"If they get fightin' it'll no be Bob here I'll hit, I warn yo',M'Adam," said the Master grimly.
"Gin ye sae muckle as touched Wullie d'ye ken what I'd do, James Moore?"asked the little man very smoothly.
"Yes--sweer," the other replied, and strode out of the room amid a roarof derisive laughter at M'Adam's expense.
Owd Bob had now attained wellnigh the perfection of his art. ParsonLeggy declared roundly that his like had not been seen since the daysof Rex son of Rally. Among the Dalesmen he was a heroic favorite, hisprowess and gentle ways winning him friends on every hand. But the pointthat told most heavily for him was that in all things he was the veryantithesis of Red Wull.
Barely a man in the country-side but owed that ferocious savage agrudge; not a man of them all who dared pay it. Once Long Kirby, fullof beer and valor, tried to settle his account. Coming on M'Adam and RedWull as he was driving into Grammoch-town, he leant over and with histhong dealt the dog a terrible sword-like slash that raised an angryridge of red from hip to shoulder; and was twenty yards down the roadbefore the little man's shrill curse reached his ear, drowned in ahideous bellow.
He stood up and lashed the colt, who, quick on his legs for a young un,soon settled to his gallop. But, glancing over his shoulder, he saw ahounding form behind, catching him as though he were walking. His faceturned sickly white; he screamed; he flogged; he looked back. Rightbeneath the tail-board was the red devil in the dust; while racing afurlong behind on the turnpike road was the mad figure of M'Adam.
The smith struck back and flogged forward. It was of no avail. With atiger-like bound the murderous brute leapt on the flying trap. At theshock of the great body the colt was thrown violently on his side; Kirbywas tossed over the hedge; and Red Wull pinned beneath the debris.
M'Adam had time to rush up and save a tragedy.
"I've a mind to knife ye, Kirby," he panted, as he bandaged the smith'sbroken head.
After that you may be sure the Dalesmen preferred to swallow insultsrather than to risk their lives; and their impotence only served to fantheir hatred to white heat.
The working methods of the antagonists were as contrasted as theirappearances. In a word, the one compelled where the other coaxed.
His enemies said the Tailless Tyke was rough; not even Tammas denied hewas ready. His brain was as big as his body, and he used them bothto some purpose. "As quick as a cat, with the heart of a lion and thetemper of Nick's self," was Parson Leggy's description.
What determination could effect, that could Red Wall; but achievementby inaction--supremest of all strategies--was not for him. In matters ofthe subtlest handling, where to act anything except indifference wasto lose, with sheep restless, fearful forebodings hymned to them by thewind, panic hovering unseen above them, when an ill-considered movementspelt catastrophe--then was Owd Bob o' Kenmuir incomparable.
Men still tell how, when the squire's new thrashing-machine ran amuckin Grammoch-town, and for some minutes the market square was a turbulentsea of blaspheming men, yelping dogs, and stampeding sheep, only oneflock stood calm as a mill-pond by the bull-ring, watching the riot withalmost indifference. And in front, sitting between them and the storm,was a quiet gray dog, his mouth stretched in a capacious yawn: to yawnwas to win, and he won.
When the worst of the uproar was over, many a glance of triumph was shotfirst at that one still pack, and then at M'Adam, as he waded throughthe disorder of huddling sheep.
"And wheer's your Wullie noo?" asked Tapper scornfully.
"Weel," the little man answered with a quiet smile, "at this minute he'skillin' your Rasper doon by the pump." Which was indeed the case; forbig blue Rasper had interfered with the great dog in the performance ofhis duty, and suffered accordingly.
* * * * *
Spring passed into summer; and the excitement as to the event of theapproaching Trials, when at length the rivals would be pittedagainst one another, reached such a height as old Jonas Maddox, theoctogenarian, could hardly recall.
Down in the Sylvester Arms there was almost nightly a conflictbetween M'Adam and Tammas Thornton, spokesman of the Dales men. Many along-drawn bout of words had the two anent the respective merits and Cupchances of red and gray. In these duels Tammas was usually worsted. Histemper would get the better of his discretion; and the cynical debaterwould be lost in the hot-tongued partisan.
During these encounters the others would, as a rule, maintain a rigidsilence. Only when their champion was being beaten, and it was time forstrength of voice to vanquish strength of argument, they joined inright lustily and roared the little man down, for all the world like thegentlemen who rule the Empire at Westminster.
Tammas was an easy subject for M'Adam to draw, but David was an easier.Insults directed at himself the boy bore with a stolidity born of longuse. But a poisonous dart shot against his friends at Kenmuir neverfailed to achieve its object. And the little man evinced an amazingtalent for the concoction of deft lies respecting James Moore.
"Yo're hearin' lies--or mair-like tellin' 'em," David answered shortly.For he treated his father now with contemptuous indifference.
"Seven months sin' his wife died," the little man continuedmeditatively. "Weel, I'm on'y 'stonished he's waited sae lang. Ainburied, anither come on--that's James Moore."
David burst angrily out of the room.
"Gaein' to ask him if it's true?" called his father after him. "Gudeluck to ye--and him."
David had now a new interest at Kenmuir. In Maggie he found an endlesssource of study. On the death of her mother the girl had taken up thereins of government at Kenmuir; and gallantly she played her part,whether in tenderly mothering the baby, wee Anne, or in the sternermatters of household work. She did her duty, young though she was,with a surprising, old-fashioned womanliness that won many a smileof approval from her father, and caused David's eyes to open withastonishment.
And he soon discovered that Maggie, mistress of Kenmuir, was anotherperson from his erstwhile playfellow and servant.
The happy days when might ruled right were gone, never to be recalled.David often regretted them, especially when in a conflict of tongues,Maggie, with her quick answers and teasing eyes, was driving him sulkyand vanquished from the field. The two were perpetually squabbling now.In the good old days, he remembered bitterly, squabbles between themwere unknown. He had never permitted them; any attempt at independentthought or action was as sternly quelled as in the Middle Ages. She mustfollow where he led on--"Ma word!"
Now she was mistress where he had been master; hers was to command, histo obey. In consequence they were perpetually at war. And yet he wouldsit for hours in the kitchen and watch her, as she went about herbusiness, with solemn, interested eyes, half of admiration, half ofamusement. In the end Maggie always turned on him with a little laughtouched with irritation.
"Han't yo' got nothin' better'n that to do, nor lookin' at me?" sheasked one Saturday about a month before Cup Day.
"No, I han't," the pert fellow rejoined.
"Then I wish yo' had. It mak's me fair jumpety yo' watchin' me so likeony cat a mouse."
"Niver yo' fash yo'sel' account o' me, ma wench," he answered calmly.
"Yo' wench, indeed!" she cried, tossing her head.
"Ay, or will be," he muttered.
"What's that?" she cried, springing round, a flush of color on her face.
"Nowt, my dear. Yo'll know so soon as I want yo' to, yo' may be sure,and no sooner."
The girl resumed her baking, half angry, half suspicious.
"I dunno' what yo' mean, Mr. M'Adam," she said.
"Don't yo', Mrs. M'A----"
The rest was lost in the crash of a falling plate; whereat David laughedquietly, and asked if he should help pick up the bits.
* * * * *
On the same evening at the Sylvester Arms an announcement was made thatknocked the breath out of its hearers.
In the debate that night on the fast-approaching Dale Trials and therelative abilities of red and gray, M'Adam on the one side, and Tammas,backed by Long Kirby and the rest, on the other, had cudgelled eachother with more than usual vigor. The controversy rose to fever-heat;abuse succeeded argument; and the little man again and again was hootedinto silence.
"It's easy laffin'," he cried at last, "but ye'll laff t'ither side o'yer ugly faces on Cup Day."
"Will us, indeed? Us'll see," came the derisive chorus.
"We'll whip ye till ye're deaf, dumb, and blind, Wullie and I."
''Yo'll not!''
"We will!"
The voices were rising like the east wind in March.
"Yo'll not, and for a very good reason too," asseverated Tammas loudly.
"Gie us yer reason, ye muckle liar," cried the little man, turning onhim.
"Becos----" began Jim Mason and stopped to rub his nose.
"Yo' 'old yo' noise, Jim," recommended Rob Saunderson.
"Becos----" it was Tammas this time who paused.
"Git on wi' it, ye stammerin' stirk!" cried M'Adam. "Why?"
"Becos--Owd Bob'll not rin."
Tammas sat back in his chair.
"What!" screamed the little man, thrusting forward.
"What's that!" yelled Long Kirby, leaping to his feet.
"Mon, say it agin!" shouted Rob.
"What's owd addled eggs tellin'?" cried Liz Burton.
"Dang his 'ead for him!" shouts Tupper.
"Fill his eye!" says Ned Hoppin.
They jostled round the old man's chair: M'Adam in front; Jem Burton andLong Kirby leaning over his shoulder; Liz behind her father; Saundersonand Tupper tackling him on either side; while the rest peered andelbowed in the rear.
The announcement had fallen like a thunderbolt among them.
Tammas looked slowly up at the little mob of eager faces above him.Pride at the sensation caused by his news struggled in his countenancewith genuine sorrow for the matter of it.
"Ay, yo' may well 'earken all on yo'. Tis enough to mak' the deadieslisten. I says agin: We's'll no rin oor Bob fot' Cup. And yo' may guesswhy. Bain't every mon, Mr. M'Adam, as'd pit aside his chanst o' the Cup,and that 'maist a gift for him"--M'Adam's tongue was in his cheek--"andit a certainty," the old man continued warmly, "oot o' respect for hiswife's memory."
The news was received in utter silence. The shock of the surprise,coupled with the bitterness of the disappointment, froze the slowtongues of his listeners.
Only one small voice broke the stillness.
"Oh, the feelin' man! He should git a reduction o' rent for sic adisplay o' proper speerit. I'll mind Mr. Hornbut to let auld Sylvesterken o't."
Which he did, and would have got a thrashing for his pains had not CyrilGilbraith thrown him out of the parsonage before the angry cleric couldlay hands upon him.
Bob, Son of Battle Page 9
