“Ay, but none like them,” said loyal Jim.
“No, thanks be to God. If there were, there’d be no room for Adam McAdam in this ‘melancholy vale’”—echoing his favorite poet again.
There was silence for a moment, and then—:
“You’re wanting a dog, ain’t you, Mr. McAdam?” Jim asked.
The little man jumped around quickly.
“What!” he cried, pretending eagerness and scanning the yellow mongrel beneath the chair. “Betsy for sale! Goodness! Where’s my check-book?” In response to which Jim, a man easily insulted, slumped in his chair.
McAdam took off his dripping coat and crossed the room to hang it on the back of a chair. The stranger watched the scrawny, shirt-clad figure with shifty eyes; then he buried his face in his mug.
McAdam reached out a hand for the chair; and as he did so, a bomb in yellow leapt out from beneath it, and, growling horribly, attacked his ankles.
“Curse ye!” cried McAdam, starting back. “Ye devil, let me alone!” Then, turning fiercely on the drover, “Yours, mister?” he asked. The man nodded. “Then call him off, can’t ye? Damn ye!” At which Teddy Bolstock went away, snickering; and Jim Mason slung the mailbags onto his shoulder and plunged out into the rain, the faithful Betsy following unwillingly.
The cause of the disturbance, having beaten off the attacking force, had withdrawn again beneath its chair. McAdam stooped down, still cursing, his wet coat on his arm, and saw a tiny yellow puppy, crouching defiantly in the dark, and glaring out with fiery light-colored eyes. Seeing that it was noticed, it bared its little teeth, raised its little hackles, and growled a hideous threat.
A sense of humor is a quality that comes to the rescue for many a person, and it was McAdam’s one good quality. The little man saw how laughable it was that such a small particle of life should be so fierce in defying him. Delighted at such a display of evil in such a young creature, he began to chuckle.
“Ye little devil!” he laughed. “He! he! ye little devil!” and snapped his fingers in vain, trying to coax the puppy to come to him.
But it growled, and glared more terribly.
“Stop it, ye little snake, or I’ll flatten you!” cried the big drover, and shuffled his feet threateningly. Whereat the puppy, gurgling like hot water in a kettle, darted forward as though to rid the world of these two bad men at one blow.
McAdam laughed again, and slapped his leg.
“Keep a civil tongue in your head and keep your distance,” says he, “or I’ll have to force you to. Though he’s only as big as a man’s thumb, a dog’s a dog for all that—he! he! the little devil.” And he began snapping his fingers again.
“Are you maybe wanting a dog?” asked the stranger. “Your friend said so.”
“My friend lied; it’s his way,” McAdam answered.
“I’m willing to part with him,” the other went on.
The little man yawned. “Well, I’ll take him to oblige ye,” he said indifferently.
The drover rose to his feet.
“I’d be giving him to you, plain giving him to you, you know! But I’ll do it!”—he smacked his great fist into his hollow palm. “You may have the dog for a pound—I’ll only ask you for a pound,” and he walked away to the window.
McAdam drew back, the better to scan this man who seemed to be doing him a favor; his lower jaw dropped, and he eyed the stranger with a comical air, as though he hardly believed him.
“A pound, man! A pound—for that noble dog!” he pointed a crooked forefinger at the little creature, whose scowling mask peered from beneath the chair. “Man, I couldn’t do it. No, no; my conscience wouldn’t permit me. It would be plain robbing you. Ah, you Englishmen!” He spoke half to himself, and sadly, as if he was sorry about the unhappy accident of his being born Scottish; “It’s your grand, open-hearted generosity that seizes a poor Scotsman by the throat. A pound! and for that!” He wagged his head mournfully, tipping it sideways the better to study the little creature.
“Take him or leave him,” ordered the stranger crossly, still gazing out of the window.
“With your permission I’ll leave him,” McAdam answered quietly.
“I’m short of cash,” the big man went on, “or I wouldn’t part with him. If I could afford to wait, there’s many who’d be glad to give me ten pounds for one of that breed—” He broke off quickly and then went on “—for a dog like that.”
“And yet ye offer him to me for a pound! Generous of you, indeed!”
Still, the little man had noticed the other man’s slip and hasty correction. Again he approached the puppy, dangling his coat before him to protect his ankles; and again the little wild beast sprang out, seized the coat in its small jaws, and wrestled with it savagely.
McAdam stooped quickly and picked up his tiny attacker; and the puppy, suspended by its neck, gurgled and slobbered; then, wriggling desperately around, closed its teeth on its enemy’s shirt. At which McAdam shook it gently and laughed. Then he started examining it.
It seemed to be about six weeks old; had a tan coat, fiery eyes, a square head with small, clipped ears, and an immense jaw for its size; the whole promised great strength, though not great beauty. And adding to this impression was the fact that its tail had been cut nearly off. For the miserable stump, still raw, looked like little more than a red button sticking to the puppy’s backside.
McAdam examined every part of the pup with careful attention; he left nothing out, from the square muzzle to the pill-like stub of a tail. And every now and then he cast a quick glance at the man by the window, who was watching this examination a little uneasily.
“Ye’ve cut his tail short,” McAdam said at last, swinging around toward the drover.
“Ay; makes their backs strong,” the big man answered, looking away.
McAdam’s chin went up in the air; his mouth opened a little and his eyelids closed a little as he gazed at the man who had offered this information.
“Oh, ay,” he said.
“Give him back to me,” ordered the drover grimly. He took the puppy and set it on the floor; upon which it immediately returned to its earlier safe position under the chair. “You’re no buyer; I knew that all along by that face of yours,” he said in insulting tones.
“Ye bought him yourself, no doubt?” McAdam asked, carelessly.
“Of course; if you say so.”
“Or perhaps you bred him?”
“Maybe I did.”
“You’re not from around here?”
“I’m not?”
A smile of real pleasure came over McAdam’s face. He laid his hand on the other man’s arm.
“Man,” he said gently, “ye remind me of home.” Then, almost in the same breath: “Ye said ye found him?”
It was the stranger’s turn to laugh.
“Ha, ha! You tickle me, little man. Found him? No; I was given him by a friend. But there’s nothing wrong with his breeding, you may believe me.”
The large fellow walked over to the chair under which the puppy lay. It leapt out like a lion, and fastened its teeth on his huge boot.
“Unusual breeding, he has, look! Uncommon spirit! My word, he’s a big-hearted one! Look at his back; look at his jaws; see how plucky he is!” He shook his booted foot fiercely, tossing his leg to and fro like a tree in the wind. But the little creature, who was first flung up toward the ceiling, then dashed to the ground, held on stubbornly, till its small jaw was bloody and its muzzle wrinkled with the effort.
“Ay, ay, that’s enough,” McAdam said, irritably, in order to stop him.
The drover stopped.
“Now, I’ll make you a last offer.” He thrust his head down to the level of the smaller man, thrusting out his neck. “And you know, this is handing him to you. You won’t be buying him—don’t fool yourself. You may have him for fifteen shillings. Why do this, you ask? Why, cause I think you’ll be kind to him.” The puppy meanwhile was retreating to its chair, leaving a spotted trail of re
d along the floor.
“Ay, ye wouldn’t be happy unless you thought he’d have a comfortable home, kind man that you are?” McAdam answered, looking at the dark trail on the floor. Then he put on his coat.
“No, no, he’s not for me. Well, I won’t keep you. Goodnight to you, mister!” and he headed towards the door.
“He’ll be a great worker,” called the drover after him.
“Ay; great work he’ll do among the sheep, with such a jaw and such a temper. Well, I must be going. Goodnight to you.”
“You’ll never have another chance like it.”
“Nor never wish to. No, no; he’ll never make a sheepdog.” And the little man turned up the collar of his coat.
“Won’t he, now?” cried the other scornfully. “There never yet was one of that line—” He stopped abruptly.
The little man spun around.
“Yes?” he said, as innocent as a child. “What’s that you were saying?”
The other man turned to the window and watched the rain falling steadily.
“You’ll miss the rain if you don’t go,” he said cleverly.
“Ay, we could use a bit of damp. And he’ll never make a sheepdog.” He shoved his cap down on his head. “Well, goodnight to ye!” and he stepped out into the rain.
◆ ◆ ◆
It was long after dark before the two men finally came to an agreement.
Little Red Wull, as he was called, became the property of Adam McAdam in exchange for the following: ninepence in cash—three copper pennies and a suspicious-looking sixpence; a lump of chewing tobacco of doubtful quality, in a well-worn pouch; and an old watch.
“I might as well be clean giving him to you,” said the stranger bitterly, at the end of the deal.
“It’s more charity that’s making me so generous to you,” McAdam answered gently. “I wouldn’t want to see you pinched for cash.”
“Thank ye kindly,” the big man replied rather sourly, and plunged out into the darkness and rain. Nor was that long-legged drover ever seen in the neighborhood again. And the puppy’s history—whether the stranger had come by him honestly or not, whether he was, indeed, descended from the famous Red McCulloch* line, remained forever afterwards a mystery in the Daleland.
* You may recognize a Red McCulloch anywhere by the ring of white on his tail about two inches from the base of it.
CHAPTER 4
First Blood
AFTER that first meeting in the Dalesman’s Daughter, Red Wull—for that was the name McAdam gave to him—calmly accepted his situation; realizing, perhaps, that this was his fate.
From then on, the sour little man and the vicious puppy seemed to grow together until they were one creature. They were never apart. Wherever McAdam was, there was sure to be his absurdly tiny companion, bristling defiance as he kept guard over his master.
The little man and his dog were inseparable. McAdam never left him behind, even at the Grange.
“I couldn’t trust my Wullie at home alone with the dear lad,” was the way he explained it. “I know I’d come back to find a little corpse on the floor, and David singing:
‘My heart is sair, I daur na tell,
My heart is sair for somebody.’
(My heart is sore, I dare not tell,
My heart is sore for somebody.)
“Ay, and he’d be sore somewhere else, too, by the time I was done with him—he, he!”
The sneer at David’s expense was as typical as it was unfair. For although the puppy and the boy were already sworn enemies, the lad would have scorned the idea of hurting so small a foe. And David told many a story at Kenmuir about Red Wull’s viciousness, about the dog’s hatred of him (David), and his loyalty to his master; how, whether he was burying his nose in the pig-bucket or chasing a fleeting rabbit, he would stop at once, if he heard his master call, and hurry up to him, panting; how he would hunt out the tom cat and drive him from the kitchen; and how he would climb onto David’s bed and seized him murderously by the nose.
Lately, relations between McAdam and James Moore had been even tenser than usual. Though they were neighbors, they rarely spoke to each other; and it was for the first time in many a long day that, on an afternoon shortly after McAdam had acquired little Red Wull, he entered the yard of Kenmuir, for the purpose of jeering at the master for, in his opinion, trespassing through the Stony Bottom.
“With your permission, Mr. Moore,” said the little man, “I’ll whistle for my dog.” And, turning, he whistled a shrill, peculiar note like the cry of the black-and-white moorland lapwing when startled from its nest.
Immediately there came scurrying desperately up, ears back, head down, tongue out, as if the world depended on his speed, a little tawny beetle of a thing, who placed his forepaws against his master’s ankles and looked up into his face; then, catching sight of the strangers, hurriedly he took up his position between them and McAdam, assuming his natural pose of dreadful defiance. He made such a laughable spectacle, that tiny warlike creature, standing at bay with bristles up and teeth bared, that even James Moore smiled.
“My word! Have you brought his muzzle, man?” cried old Tammas, the humorist; and, turning, climbed hastily onto an upturned bucket that stood nearby. At this, the puppy, made all the more bold by his enemy’s retreat, advanced savagely to the attack, buzzing around the slippery pail like a wasp on a windowpane, in a vain attempt to reach the old man.
Tammas stood on the top, pulling up his trousers and looking down at his attacker, the picture of deathly fear.
“Help! Oh, help!” he bawled. “Send for the soldiers! Fetch the police! For goodness sake, call him off, man!” Even Sammel Todd, watching the scene from the cart shed, was tickled and burst into a loud guffaw, heartily joined by two of the other farm workers, Henry and old Job. McAdam remarked: “You’re more suited to the stage than a stable bucket, Mr. Thornton.”
“How did you come by him?” asked Tammas, nodding at the puppy.
“Found him,” the little man replied, sucking his twig. “Found him in my stocking on my birthday. A present from my little David for his old dad, I suspect.”
“Well, that’s a bit hard to believe,” said Tammas, and was seized with a sudden attack of mysterious merriment. For, looking up as McAdam was speaking, he had caught a glimpse of a boy’s blond head peering cautiously around the cow shed, and, behind him, the flutter of short petticoats. They disappeared as silently as they had come; and two small figures, just returned from school, glided away and took shelter in the friendly darkness of a coal-hole.
“Come away, Maggie, come away! It’s the old one himself,” whispered a disrespectful voice.
McAdam looked around suspiciously.
“What’s that?” he asked sharply.
At the same moment, however, Mrs. Moore put her head out of the kitchen window.
“Come in, Mister McAdam, and have a bit of tea,” she called hospitably.
“Thank you kindly, Mrs. Moore, I will,” he answered, politely for him. And we must admit this one good thing about Adam McAdam: that, although there was only one woman he had ever been known to praise, there was also only one, in the whole course of his life, against whom he had ever spoken an evil word—and that was years later, when men said his brain was weakened. He had insults and jeers for every man, but a woman, good or bad, was sacred to him. For he had a feeling of tenderness and reverence for women in general, the sex to which his mother and his wife belonged, and if a man has that feeling, we know he cannot be altogether bad. As he turned to go into the house he looked back at Red Wull.
“Ay, we can leave him there,” he said. “That is, if you’re not afraid, Mr. Thornton?”
◆ ◆ ◆
It is enough to say two things about what happened while the men were inside. First, that Owd Bob was no bully. Second, this: In the code of honor among sheepdogs, one word is written in stark black letters; and opposite it is another word, written large in the color of blood. The first word is “Sheep-
murder”; the second, “Death.” Sheep-murder is the only crime that must be punished with bloodshed; and to accuse a dog of that crime is to offer the one unforgivable insult. Every sheepdog knows it, and so does every shepherd.
That afternoon, while the men were still talking, the quiet echoes of the farm rang with a furious animal cry, repeated twice: “Shot for sheep-murder”—“Shot for sheep-murder”; followed by a hollow stillness.
◆ ◆ ◆
The two men finished their conversation. The business was concluded peacefully, mainly because of the soothing influence of Mrs. Moore. Together, the three went out into the yard; Mrs. Moore taking the opportunity to speak up shyly for David.
“He’s such a good little lad, I do think,” she was saying.
“You should know, Mrs. Moore,” the little man answered, somewhat bitterly. “You see enough of him.”
“You must be very proud of him, mister,” the woman continued, paying no attention to the sneer. “He is growing into such a fine lad.”
McAdam shrugged his shoulders.
“I barely know the lad,” he said. “I know him by sight, of course, but barely to speak to. He’s not often at home.”
“And how proud his mother would be if she could see him,” the woman continued, well aware of his one tender spot. “Oh, she was fond of him, she was.”
An angry flush stole over the little man’s face. He understood the implied rebuke very well; and it hurt him like a knife.
“Yes, yes, Mrs. Moore,” he began. Then, breaking off, and looking about him—“Where’s my Wullie?” he cried excitedly. “James Moore!” whipping around toward the Master, “my Wullie’s gone—gone, I say!”
Elizabeth Moore turned away indignantly.
“I do declare he takes more trouble over that little yellow beast than ever he does over his own flesh and blood,” she muttered.
“Wullie, my little doggy! Wullie, where are ye? James Moore, he’s gone—my Wullie’s gone!” cried the little man, running around the yard, searching everywhere.
“He cannot have gone far,” said the Master, reassuringly, looking about him.
Alfred Ollivant's Bob, Son of Battle Page 3