Part 22 (2/2)
M'Adam stood huddling in the corner. He shook like an aspen leaf; his eyes blazed in his white face; and he still nursed one arm with the other.
”Honor yer father,” he quoted in small, low voice.
PART IV THE BLACK KILLER
Chapter XIV. A MAD MAN
TAMMAS is on his feet in the tap-room of the Arms, brandis.h.i.+ng 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 s.e.xton 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 hoa.r.s.e 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, impa.s.sive backs turned on him, he smiles bitterly.
”They dursen't Wullie, not a man of them a'!” he cries.
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