But what did he care? His Wullie was recognized as champion, the best sheepdog of the year; and the little man was happy. They could turn their backs on him; but they could not change that; and he could afford to be indifferent. “They don’t like it, lad—he, he! But they’ll just have to put up wi’ it. Ye’ve won it, Wullie—won it fair.”
He elbowed his way through the crowd, heading toward the rope-guarded enclosure in front of the committee tent, around which the people were now pressing. In the door of the tent stood the secretary, various stewards, and members of the committee. In front, alone in the roped-off space, was Lady Eleanour, fragile, dainty, graceful, waiting with a smile on her face to greet the winner. And on a table beside her, alone and dignified, the Shepherds’ Trophy.
There it stood, kingly and impressive; its fair white sides inscribed with many names; cradled in three shepherds’ crooks; and on the top, as if to guard the Cup’s contents, an exquisitely carved collie’s head. The Shepherds’ Trophy, the goal of his life’s race, and that of many another man’s.
He climbed over the rope, followed by Red Wull, and took off his hat with almost courtly respectful politeness to the fair lady before him.
As he walked up to the table on which the Cup stood, a shrill voice, easily recognizable, broke the silence.
“You’d like it better if ’twas full and you could swim in it, you and yer Wullie,” the voice called out. At which the crowd giggled, and Lady Eleanour looked indignant.
The little man turned.
“I’ll remember to drink yer health, Mr. Thornton, never fear, though I know ye’d rather drink your own,” he said. At which the crowd giggled again; and a gray head at the back, which had hoped to go unrecognized, disappeared suddenly.
The little man stood there in the stillness, sourly smiling, his face still damp from his hard work; while the Tailless Tyke at his side defiantly faced the tightly packed ring of onlookers, a white fence of teeth faintly visible between his lips.
Lady Eleanour looked uncomfortable. Usually the lucky winner was unable to hear her little speech, as she gave the Cup away, because the applause was so deafening. Now there was utter silence. She glanced up at the crowd, but there was no response to her unspoken appeal in that forest of unfriendly faces. And her gentle heart bled for the forlorn little man before her. To make up for it, she smiled on him so sweetly that it was more than enough.
“I’m sure you deserve your success, Mr. McAdam,” she said. “You and Red Wull there worked splendidly—everybody says so.”
“I’ve heard nothin’ about it,” the little man answered dryly. At which someone in the crowd chuckled.
“And we all know what a grand dog he is; though”—with a reproachful smile as she glanced at Red Wull’s square, short back end—“he’s not very polite.”
“His heart is good, your Ladyship, if his manners are not,” McAdam answered, smiling.
“Liar!” came a loud voice in the silence. Lady Eleanour looked up, hot with indignation, and half rose from her seat. But McAdam merely smiled.
“Wullie, turn around and make yer bow to the lady,” he said. “They’ll not hurt us now we’re doing well; it’s when we’re down that they’ll flock like crows to fresh-killed carrion.”
At that, Red Wull walked up to Lady Eleanour, faintly wagging his tail; and she put her hand on his huge bull head and said, “Dear old Ugly!” at which the crowd cheered in earnest.
After that, for some moments, the only sound was the gentle ripple of the good lady’s voice and the little man’s bitter replies.
“Why, last winter the country was full of talk about what you and Red Wull had been doing. It was always McAdam and his Red Wull have done this and that and the other. I declare I got quite tired of you both, I heard such a lot about you.”
The little man, cap in hand, smiled, blushed, and looked genuinely pleased.
“And when it wasn’t you, it was Mr. Moore and Owd Bob.”
“Owd Bob, bless him!” called out a booming voice. “Three cheers for our Bob!”
“Hip, hip, hooray!” The cry was echoed gallantly and cast from mouth to mouth; and strangers, though they did not understand, caught the infection and cheered too; and the uproar continued for some minutes.
When it was ended, Lady Eleanour was standing up, a faint flush on her cheeks and her eyes flashing dangerously, like a queen cornered.
“Yes,” she cried, and her clear voice thrilled through the air like a trumpet. “Yes; and now three cheers for Mr. McAdam and his Red Wull! Hip, hip—”
“Hooray!” A little knot of determined individuals at the back—James Moore, Parson Leggy, Jim Mason, and you may be sure in his heart, at least, Owd Bob—responded to the call with vigor and enthusiasm. The crowd joined in; and, once started, cheered and cheered again.
“Three cheers more for Mr. McAdam!”
But the little man waved to them.
“Don’t be bigger hypocrites than ye can help,” he said. “You’ve done enough for one day, and I thank ye for it.”
Then Lady Eleanour handed him the Cup.
“Mr. McAdam, I present you with the Champion Challenge Dale Cup, open to all comers. Keep it, guard it, love it as your own, and win it again if you can. Twice more and it’s yours, you know, and it will stop forever beneath the shadow of the Pike. And that’s the right place for it, say I—the Dale Cup for Dalesmen.”
The little man took the Cup tenderly.
“It shall not leave the Estate or my house, yer Ladyship, if Wullie and I can help it,” he said emphatically.
Lady Eleanour retreated into the tent, and the crowd swarmed over the ropes and around the little man, who held the Cup beneath his arm.
Long Kirby laid careless hands upon it.
“Don’t touch it!” ordered McAdam.
“I shall!”
“You shan’t! Wullie, keep him off.” Which the great dog proceeded to do amid the laughter of the onlookers.
Among the last, James Moore was pushed past the little man by the motion of the crowd. At the sight of him, McAdam’s face took on an expression of intense concern.
“Man, Moore!” he cried, peering forward as though in alarm; “man, Moore, ye’re green—positively verdant. Are ye in pain?” Then, catching sight of Owd Bob, he flinched back as though in horror.
“And really! So’s yer dog! Yer dog that was gray is now green. Oh, good life!”—and he made as though about to fall fainting to the ground.
Then, in mocking tones: “Ah, but you shouldn’t yearn for—”
“He won’t have to yearn for it long, I can tell yo’,” interrupted Tammas’s shrill voice.
“And why not?”
“Because next year he’ll win it from yo’. Our Bob’ll win it, little man. Why? That’s why.”
The retort was greeted with a yell of applause from the sprinkling of Dalesmen in the crowd.
But McAdam swaggered away into the tent, his head up, the Cup beneath his arm, and Red Wull guarding him from behind.
“First of all ye’ll have to beat Adam McAdam and his Red Wull!” he called back proudly.
CHAPTER 11
Our Bob
McADAM’S pride in the great Cup that now graced his kitchen was supreme. It stood alone in the very center of the mantelpiece, just below the old gun, a bell-mouthed blunderbuss, that hung upon the wall. The only ornament in the bare room, it shone out in its silvery purity like the moon in a gloomy sky.
For once, the little man was content. Since his mother’s death, David had never known such peace. It was not that his father became actively kind; rather that he forgot to be actively unkind.
“Not that I care a brass button one way or the other,” the boy informed Maggie.
“Then you should,” that proper little person replied.
McAdam was, indeed, a changed man. He forgot to curse James Moore; he forgot to sneer at Owd Bob; he rarely visited the Sylvester Arms, which was a loss for Jem Burton’s earnings and his te
mper; and he was never drunk.
“Soaks himself at home, instead,” suggested Tammas, who was prejudiced. But the accusation was untrue.
“Too drunk to get so far,” said Long Kirby, kindly man.
“I reckon the Cup is a sort of company to him,” said Jim Mason. “Maybe it’s lonesomeness that drives him here so much.” And maybe you were right, charitable Jim.
“We’d best make the most of it while he has it, ’cause he won’t have it for long,” Tammas remarked amid applause.
Even Parson Leggy admitted—rather reluctantly, indeed, for he was only human—that the little man was wonderfully changed for the better.
“But I’m afraid it may not last,” he said. “We shall see what happens when Owd Bob beats him for the Cup, as he certainly will. That’ll be the decisive moment.”
As things were, the little man spent all his spare moments with the Cup between his knees, polishing it and singing softly to Wullie:
“I never saw a fairer,
I never lo’ed a dearer,
And neist my heart I’ll wear her,
For fear my jewel tine.”
(I never saw a fairer,
I never loved a dearer,
And next my heart I’ll wear her,
For fear my jewel be lost.)
“There, Wullie! Look at her! Isn’t she bonnie? She shines like a twinkle—a twinkle in the sky.” And he would hold it out at arm’s length, his head cocked sideways the better to gaze at its bright beauties.
The little man was very protective of his treasure. David could not touch it; could not smoke in the kitchen for fear the fumes would tarnish its glorious surface; and if he came too near it, he was ordered abruptly away.
“As if I wanted to touch his nasty Cup!” he complained to Maggie. “I’d rather any day touch—”
“Hands off, Mr. David, this minute!” she cried indignantly. “Impertinence, indeed!” as she tossed her head clear of the strong fingers that were fondling her pretty hair.
So it was that McAdam, on coming quietly into the kitchen one day, was consumed with angry resentment to find David actually handling the object that the little man so worshipped; and the way he was handling it added a thousand times over to the offense.
The boy was leaning idly against the mantelpiece, his fair head shoved right into the Cup, his breath dimming its shine, and his two hands, big and dirty, slowly turning it around before his eyes.
Bursting with indignation, the little man crept up behind the boy. David was reading down the long list of winners.
“There’s the first of ’em,” he muttered, sticking out his tongue to point to the spot: “‘Andrew Moore’s Rough, 178–.’ And there again—‘James Moore’s Pinch, 179–.’ And again— ‘Beck, 182–.’ Ah, and there’s the one Tammas tells about! ‘Rex, 183–,’ and ‘Rex, 183–.’ Ay, he was a rare one, to hear them talk! If only he’d won just one more time! Ah, there’s none like the Gray Dogs—they all says that, and I say so myself; none like the Gray Dogs o’ Kenmuir, bless ’em! And we’ll win again too—” He broke off short; his eye had traveled down to the last name on the list.
“‘McAdam’s Wull’!” he read with unspeakable contempt, and put his great thumb across the name as though to wipe it out. “‘McAdam’s Wull’! Good gracious sakes! P-h-g-h-r-r!”—and he made a motion as though to spit on the ground.
But a little shoulder was into his side, two small fists were beating at his chest, and a shrill voice was yelling: “Devil! Devil! Stand off!”—and he was tumbled headlong away from the mantelpiece and brought up abruptly against the side wall.
The precious Cup swayed on its ebony stand, the boy’s hands, roughly withdrawn, almost knocking it over. But the little man’s first impulse, cursing and screaming though he was, was to steady it.
“‘McAdam’s Wull’! I wish he was here to teach ye, ye snot-faced, ox-limbed good-for-nothing!” he cried, standing in front of the Cup, his eyes blazing.
“Ay, ‘McAdam’s Wull’! And why not ‘McAdam’s Wull’? Have ye any objection to the name?”
“I didn’t know yo’ was there,” said David, a bit sheepishly.
“No; or ye wouldn’t have said it.”
“I’d have thought it, though,” muttered the boy.
Luckily, however, his father did not hear. He stretched his hands up tenderly for the Cup, lifted it down, and began reverently to polish the dimmed sides with his handkerchief.
“Ye’re thinkin’, no doubt,” he cried, casting up a vicious glance at David, “that Wullie’s not good enough to have his name alongside o’ them cursed Gray Dogs. Aren’t ye now? Let’s have the truth, for once—just for a laugh.”
“Reckon he’s good enough if there’s none better,” David replied coolly.
“And who should there be that’s better? Tell me that, ye big blockhead.”
David smiled.
“Eh, that would take me a long time,” he said.
“And what do ye mean by that?” his father cried.
“Nay; I was only thinking that Mr. Moore’s Bob will look very fine writ there, under that one.” He pointed to the vacant space below Red Wull’s name.
The little man put the Cup back on its pedestal with hurried hands. The handkerchief dropped ignored to the floor; he turned and sprang furiously at the boy, who stood against the wall, still smiling; and, seizing him by the collar of his coat, shook him to and fro with fiery energy.
“So ye’re hopin’, prayin’, no doubt, that James Moore—curse him!—will win my Cup away from me, yer own dad. I wonder ye’re not ashamed to cross my door! Ye live off o’ me; ye suck my blood, ye foul-mouthed leech. Wullie and me break ourselves to keep ye in house and home—and what’s yer gratitude? Ye plot to rob us of our rights.”
He dropped the boy’s coat and stood back.
“No rights about it,” said David, still keeping his temper.
“If I win, is it not my right as much as any Englishman’s?”
Red Wull, who had heard the rising voices, came trotting in, scowled at David, and took his stand beside his master.
“Ay, if yo’ win it,” said David, giving meaningful emphasis to the word “if.”
“And who’s going to beat us?”
David looked at his father, pretending surprise.
“I tell yo’ Owd Bob’s running,” he answered.
“And what if he is?” the other cried.
“Why, even you should know that much,” the boy sneered.
The little man could not help but understand.
“So that’s it!” he said. Then, in a scream, with one finger pointing to the great dog:
“And what about him? What’ll my Wullie be doing meanwhile? Tell me that, and take care! Mind ye, he stands here listening!” And, indeed, the Tailless Tyke was bristling, ready for battle.
David did not like the look of things; and edged away toward the door.
“What’ll Wullie be doin’, ye chicken-hearted skunk?” his father cried.
“Him?” said the boy, now close to the door. “Him?” he said, with a slow contempt that made the red bristles quiver on the dog’s neck. “He’ll be watching, I should think—watching. What else is he fit for? I tell yo’ our Bob—”
“—‘Our Bob’!” screamed the little man, darting forward. “‘Our Bob’! Listen to him. I’ll ‘our—’ At him, Wullie! at him!”
But the Tailless Tyke needed no encouragement. With a harsh growl he sprang through the air, only to crash against the closing door.
The outer door banged, and in another second a mocking finger tapped on the windowpane.
“Better luck to the two o’ you next time!” laughed a scornful voice; and David ran down the hill toward Kenmuir.
CHAPTER 12
How Red Wull Held the Bridge
STARTING from that hour, the flame of McAdam’s jealousy blazed into a mighty fire. The winning of the Dale Cup was all he could think about. He had won it once, and would win it again despit
e all the Moores, all the Gray Dogs, all the undutiful sons in existence; about that, he was determined. The fact of his having tasted the joys of victory only whetted his appetite. And now he felt he could never be happy till the Cup was his own—won for good.
At home, David was hardly allowed to enter the room where the trophy stood.
“I won’t have ye touching my Cup, ye dirty-fingered, ill-born good-for-nothing. Wullie and me won it—you had nothin’ to do with it. Go off to James Moore and James Moore’s dog.”
“Ay, and shall I take the Cup with me? or will you wait till it’s taken from ye?”
And so the two went on; and every day the tension came closer to the breaking-point.
In the Dale, the little man met with no sympathy. The hearts of the Dalesmen were one and all on the side of Owd Bob and his master.
Whereas in the old days, at the Sylvester Arms, his shrill, wicked tongue had rarely been still, now he maintained a sullen silence; Jem Burton, at least, couldn’t complain. Crouched away in a corner, with Red Wull beside him, the little man would sit watching and listening as the Dalesmen talked about Owd Bob’s doings, his steadiness, good judgment, and coming victory.
Sometimes he could no longer restrain himself. Then he would spring to his feet, and stand, a little swaying figure, and condemn them passionately with almost pathetic outbursts of powerful language. These speeches always ended the same way.
“Ye’re all against us!” the little man would cry in a quivering voice.
“Yes, we are,” Tammas would answer smugly.
“By fair means or foul, you’re pleased as long as Wullie and me are beaten. I’m surprised you don’t poison him—a little arsenic, and the way would be clear for your Bob.”
“The way is clear enough without that,” came from Tammas sharply.
Then a long silence, broken only by the exceedingly bitter cry: “Eh, Wullie, Wullie, they’re all against us!”
◆ ◆ ◆
And always the rivals—red and gray—were on the lookout for their opportunity. But the Master, with his commanding presence and stern eyes, was always ready for them. Toward the end, McAdam, silent and sneering, would secretly urge on Red Wull to the attack; until, one day in Grammoch-town, James Moore turned on him, his blue eyes glittering. “D’you think, you little fool,” he cried in that hard voice of his, “that once they got going we would ever get either of them off alive?” This seemed to strike the little man as a new idea; for, from that moment on, he was always the first in his feverish attempts to put his small body, like a buffer, between the would-be fighters.
Alfred Ollivant's Bob, Son of Battle Page 9
