Part 40 (1/2)

”Then why don't yo' go and tell him so, yo' muckle liar?” roared Tammas at last, enraged to madness.

”I will!” said M'Adam. And he did.

It was on the day preceding the great summer sheep fair at Grammoch-town that he fulfilled his vow.

That is always a big field-day at Kenmuir; and on this occasion James Moore and Owd Bob had been up and working on the Pike from the rising of the sun. Throughout the straggling lands of Kenmuir the Master went with his untiring adjutant, rounding up, cutting out, drafting. It was already noon when the flock started from the yard.

On the gate by the stile, as the party came up, sat M'Adam.

”I've a word to say to you, James Moore,” he announced, as the Master approached.

”Say it then, and quick. I've no time to stand gossipin' here, if yo'

have,” said the Master.

M'Adam strained forward till he nearly toppled off the gate.

”Queer thing, James Moore, you should be the only one to escape this Killer.”

”Yo' forget yoursel', M'Adam.”

”Ay, there's me,” acquiesced the little man. ”But you--hoo d'yo' 'count for _your_ luck?”

James Moore swung round and pointed proudly at the gray dog, now patrolling round the flock.

”There's my luck!” he said.

M'Adam laughed unpleasantly.

”So I thought,” he said, ”so I thought! And I s'pose ye're thinkin' that yer luck,” nodding at the gray dog, ”will win you the Cup for certain a month hence.”

”I hope so!” said the Master.

”Strange if he should not after all,” mused the little man.

James Moore eyed him suspiciously. ”What d'yo' mean?” he asked sternly.

M'Adam shrugged his shoulders. ”There's mony a slip 'twixt Cup and lip, that's a'. I was thinkin' some mischance might come to him.”

The Master's eyes flashed dangerously. He recalled the many rumors he had heard, and the attempt on the old dog early in the year.

”I canna think ony one would be coward enough to murder him,” he said, drawing himself up.

M'Adam leant forward. There was a nasty glitter in his eye, and his face was all a-tremble.

”Ye'd no think ony one 'd be cooard enough to set the son to murder the father. Yet some one did--set the lad on to 'sa.s.sinate me. He failed at me, and next, I suppose, he'll try at Wullie!” There was a flush on the sallow face, and a vindictive ring in the thin voice. ”One way or t'ither, fair or foul, Wullie or me, ain or baith, has got to go afore Cup Day, eh, James Moore! eh?”

The Master put his hand on the latch of the gate, ”That'll do, M'Adam,”