Alfred Ollivant's Bob, Son of Battle

by Alfred Ollivant

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  McAdam might curse, he might threaten, but when the time came, Owd Bob won.

  The styles of the rivals were clearly different: the patience, the subtle signals, combined with the splendid dash, of one dog; and the fierce, driving fury of the other.

  The outcome was never in doubt. It may have been that the temper of the Tailless Tyke failed when it was tested; it may have been that his sheep were wild, as McAdam declared; certainly not, as the little man in a choking voice tried to protest, that they had been chosen and purposely selected to ruin his chances. What is certain is that his tactics scared them hopelessly: and he never had control of them.

  As for Owd Bob, the way he dropped smoothly to a crouching position on the ground, the way he drove the sheep, the way he guided them into the pen, aroused the loud-tongued admiration of both the spectators and the competitors alike. He was patient yet persistent, quiet yet firm, and he seemed to persuade the sheep under his care to go where he wanted them to go in a manner that was uniquely his own.

  When, at last, the judges announced their decision, and it was known that, after a gap of half a century, the Shepherds’ Trophy had once again been won by a Gray Dog of Kenmuir, there was a scene such as has rarely been witnessed on the slope behind the Dalesman’s Daughter.

  Great fists were pounded on mighty backs; great feet were stamped on the sun-dried banks of the Silver Lea; strong lungs were strained to their utmost capacity; and roars of “Moore!” “Owd Bob o’ Kenmuir!” “The Gray Dogs!” thundered up the hillside, and echoed, thundering, back.

  Even James Moore was visibly moved as he worked his way through the cheering mob; and Owd Bob, trotting alongside him in quiet dignity, seemed to wave his silvery brush in gracious response.

  Master Jacky Sylvester alternately turned cartwheels and knocked the young Honorable Launcelot Bilks to the ground. Lady Eleanour, her cheeks pink with pleasure, waved her parasol and tried to quiet her son’s high spirits. Parson Leggy danced a little dance quite unusual for a minister, and shook hands with the Squire till both those fine old gentlemen were purple in the face. Long Kirby picked out a small man in the crowd, and bashed his hat down over his eyes, while Tammas, Rob Saunderson, Tupper, Hoppin, Londesley, and the rest joined hands and went dashing around like a gang of brainless boys.

  Of them all, however, none was so loud and wild in the mad heat of his enthusiasm as David McAdam. He stood in the Kenmuir wagon beside Maggie, easily seen above the crowd, and roared in hoarse enchantment:

  “Well done, our Bob! Well done, Mr. Moore! You’ve knocked him! Knock him again! Owd Bob o’ Kenmuir! Moore! Moore o’ Kenmuir! Hip, hip . . .!” until the noisy young giant attracted such attention in his violent delight that Maggie had to lay her hand on his arm to quiet him.

  Alone, on the far bank of the stream, stood the defeated pair.

  The little man was trembling slightly; his face was still hot from his hard work; and as he listened to the applause for the man who had beaten him, there was a pitiful fixed smile on his face. In front of him stood the defeated dog, his lips wrinkling and his hackles rising, as he, too, saw and heard and understood.

  “It’s a grand thing to have a son who respects you and does right by you, Wullie,” the little man whispered, watching David’s waving figure. “He’s happy—and so are they all—not so much that James Moore has won, as that you and I are beaten.”

  Then, breaking down for a moment:

  “Eh, Wullie, Wullie! They’re all against us. It’s you and I alone, lad.”

  Again, seeing the Squire followed by Parson Leggy, Viscount Birdsaye, and others of the gentry forcing their way through the crowd to shake hands with the winner, he went on:

  “It’s good to be on friendly terms with high society, Wullie. Never make friends with a man beneath you in rank, nor never make an enemy of a man above ye: that’s a good rule to follow, Wullie, if ye want to be a success in honest England.”

  He stood there, alone with his dog, watching the crowd on the far slope as it surged upward in the direction of the committee tent. Only when the dark mass of people had packed themselves in solid rows around that ring, inside which, just a year ago, he had stood in a very different situation, and was at last quiet, a wintry smile played for a moment around his lips. He laughed a joyless laugh.

  “Wait a bit, Wullie—he, he! Just wait a bit.” And he recited a scrap of verse from his favorite:

  “The best-laid schemes o’ mice and men

  Gang aft agley.”

  (The best-laid plans of mice and men

  Oft go awry.)

  As he spoke, there came down to him, above the uproar, a faint cry of mingled surprise and anger. The cheering stopped suddenly. There was silence; then there burst on the stillness a hurricane of indignation.

  The crowd surged forward, then turned. Every eye looked across the stream. A hundred damning fingers pointed at the lonely figure where he stood. There were hoarse yells of: “There he is! That’s him! What’s he done with it? Thief! Throttle him!”

  The mob came lumbering down the slope like one man, thundering their curses from a thousand throats. They looked dangerous, and their anger was inflamed by the knot of angry Dalesmen who led the way. There was more than one pale, frightened face among the women at the top of the slope as they watched the crowd blundering blindly down the hill. There were more men than just Parson Leggy, the Squire, James Moore, and the local policemen in the thick of it all, trying frantically with voice and motion—yes, and stick too—to stop the advance.

  It was useless; the dark wave of men rolled on, irresistible.

  On the far bank stood the little man, motionless, waiting for them with a grin on his face. And a little farther in front was the Tailless Tyke, his back and neck like a newly mown wheat field, as he rumbled a loud and echoing challenge.

  “Come on, gentlemen!” the little man cried. “Come on! I’ll wait for ye, never fear. Ye’re a thousand to one and a dog. Those are the odds ye like, you Englishmen!”

  And the mob, with murder in its throat, accepted the invitation and came on.

  At the moment, however, from the slope above, sounding clear above the tramp of the crowd, a great voice bellowed: “Make way! Make way! Make way for Mr. Trotter!” The advancing crowd hesitated and a path opened in the midst of it; and the secretary of the contest came bustling through.

  He was a small, fat man, fussy at all times, and always in a sweat. Now his face was dark red with anger, and streaming; he motioned wildly; vague words bubbled forth, as his short legs twinkled down the slope.

  The crowd paused to admire him. Someone shouted a funny remark, and the crowd laughed. For the moment, the situation was saved.

  The fat secretary hurried on down the slope, paying no attention to any insult but the most important one. He bounced over the plank-bridge: and as he came closer, McAdam saw that in each hand he was waving a brick.

  “Stop, man! Don’t throw!” he cried, making as though to turn in sudden terror.

  “What’s this? What’s this?” gasped the secretary, waving his arms.

  “Bricks, looks like,” the other answered, staying his flight.

  The secretary puffed up like a pudding rising quickly in the oven.

  “Where’s the Cup! Champion . . . Challenge, I mean,” he jerked out. “Mind you, sir, you’re responsible, entirely responsible! Dents, damages, delays! What does it all mean, sir? These shocking creations”—he waved the bricks, and McAdam moved back quickly—“wrapped, I swear, in straw, sir, in the carrying case that was meant to hold the Cup itself! No Cup! Shameful! Dreadful! An insult to me—to the Trial—to the committee—to everyone! What does it mean, sir!” He paused to pant, his body filling and emptying like a balloon.

  McAdam went up to him with one eye on the crowd, which was heaving forward again, still threatening, but now grim and silent.

  “I put them there,” he whispered; and moved back to watch the result of his confessio
n.

  The secretary gasped.

  “You—you not only do this—amazing thing—these shocking objects”—he hurled the bricks furiously on the innocent ground—“but you dare to tell me you did it!”

  The little man smiled.

  “‘Do wrong and hide it, do right and confess it,’ that’s the Englishman’s motto, and mine too, usually; but this time I had my reasons.”

  “Reasons, sir! No reasons can justify such an extraordinary abuse of all the—of all respectable behavior. Reasons! The reasons of a madman. That says it, sir. Dishonest withholding—dishonest, I say, sir! What were your precious reasons?”

  The mob, with Tammas and Long Kirby at the front of it, had now nearly reached the plank-bridge. They still looked dangerous, and there were isolated cries of:

  “Duck him!”

  “Throw him in!”

  “And the dog, too!”

  “With one of them bricks around their necks!”

  “There are my reasons!” said McAdam, pointing to the forest of threatening faces. “Ye see I’m not loved by those gentlemen there, and”—in a loud whisper in the other’s ear—“I thought maybe I’d be attacked on the way here.”

  Tammas, out in front of the crowd, now had his foot upon the first plank of the bridge.

  “Ye robber! Ye thief! Wait till we lay our hands on ye, you and yer gorilla!” he called.

  McAdam half turned.

  “Wullie,” he said quietly, “guard the bridge.”

  At the order, the Tailless Tyke shot gladly forward, and the leaders on the bridge as hastily moved back. The dog galloped onto the rattling plank, took up his position squarely in the center of the narrow way, and stood facing the hostile crowd like the legendary dog Cerberus guarding the gates of hell: his bull-head was thrust forward, his hackles were up, his teeth glinting, and a distant rumbling in his throat, as though daring them to come on.

  “Yo’ first, old lad!” said Tammas, hopping nimbly behind Long Kirby.

  “Nay; the old folks should lead the way!” cried the big blacksmith, his face grayish-white. He wrenched himself around, pinned the old man by the arms, and held him by force in front of him as a protective shield. There followed an undignified struggle between the two brave men, Tammas bellowing and kicking in the grip of mortal fear.

  “Jim Mason’ll show us,” he suggested at last.

  “Nay,” said honest Jim; “I’m afraid.” He could say it without embarrassment; for the courage of Postie Jim was a matter that had been decided long ago.

  Then Jem Burton would go first?

  Nay; Jem had a loving wife and dear little kids at home.

  Then Big Bell?

  Big Bell would rather see himself running in the opposite direction.

  A tall figure came forcing its way through the crowd, his face a little paler than usual, carrying in his hand a fearful-looking stick with a stout knob on the end.

  “I’m goin’!” said David.

  “No, ye’re not,” answered the sturdy Sammel, gripping the boy from behind with arms like the roots of an oak. “Your time’ll come soon enough, by the looks of you, without hurrying it on.” And the opinion of the Dalesmen was in agreement with the big man; for, as old Rob Saunderson said:

  “I reckon he’d rather claw onto your throat, lad, than any o’ ours.”

  As there was no one who stepped up to claim the honor of leading the way, Tammas came forward with a clever idea.

  “Tell you what, lads, we’d better let them that don’t know nothing at all about him go first. And once they’re on the bridge, see, we won’t let ’em off; but keep a-shovin’ ’em forward. Then us’ll follow.”

  By this time, there was a little bare space of green around the head of the bridge, like a fairy circle into which mortals may not step. Around this, the mob formed a thick hedge: the Dalesmen in front, pushing back like cowards and bawling to those behind to stop that shovin’; and those behind urging bravely forward, yelling jeers and insults at the front rank. “Come on! Who’s afraid? Let us through to ’em, then, ye Royal Chickens!”—for they knew very well that their demand was impossible.

  And as they wedged and jostled thus, there crept out from their midst as gallant a champion as ever walked over the grass. He trotted out into the ring, watched by all, and paused to gaze at the lean, weary figure on the bridge. The sun lit the sprinkling of snow-white hair on the dome of his head; one forepaw was off the ground; and he stood there, royally alert, scanning his enemy.

  “The Owd One!” went up in a roar fit to split the air as the hero of the day was recognized. And the Dalesmen spontaneously took a step forward as the gray knight walked softly across the green.

  “Our Bob’ll fetch him!” they roared, their blood leaping to fever heat, and gripped their sticks, grimly serious and determined to follow now.

  The gray champion trotted up onto the bridge, and paused again, the long hair about his neck rising like a thick collar, and a strange glint in his eyes; and the guardian of the bridge never moved. Red and Gray stood thus, face to face: the one light-hearted yet resolute, the other motionless, his great head slowly sinking between his forelegs, hard and heavy as a rock.

  There was no shouting now: it was time for action, not words. Only, above the stillness, came a sound from the bridge like the snore of a giant in his sleep, and blending in with it, a low, deep purring thunder like some monster cat well pleased.

  “Wullie,” came a solitary voice from the far side, “guard the bridge!”

  One ear went back, one ear was still forward; the great head was low and lower between his forelegs and the glowing eyes rolled upward so that the watchers could see the murderous white.

  Forward the gray dog stepped.

  Then, for the second time that afternoon, a voice, stern and hard, came ringing down from the slope above over the heads of the crowd.

  “Bob, lad, come back!”

  “He, he! I thought that was comin’,” sneered the small voice over the stream.

  The gray dog heard, and paused.

  “Bob, lad, come in, I say!”

  At that, he swung round and marched slowly back, gallant as he had come, dignified still in the injury to his pride.

  And Red Wull threw back his head and bellowed a song of victory—challenge, triumph, scorn, all blended in that bull-like, blood-chilling howl.

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  In the meantime, McAdam and the secretary had finished their business. It had been settled that the Cup was to be delivered over to James Moore not later than the following Saturday.

  “Saturday, see! At the latest!” the secretary cried as he turned and trotted off.

  “Mr. Trotter,” McAdam called after him, “I’m sorry, but ye must stay this side of the Lea till I’ve reached the foot of the Pass. If those gentlemen”—nodding toward the crowd—“should lay hands on me, why—” and he shrugged his shoulders meaningfully. “Besides, Wullie’s guarding the bridge.”

  With that, the little man strolled off slowly; now lingering to pick a flower, now to wave a mocking hand at the furious mob, and slowly on to the foot of the Murk Muir Pass. There he turned and whistled that shrill, peculiar note.

  “Wullie, Wullie, to me!” he called.

  At that, with one last threat thrown at the thousand souls he had held at bay for thirty minutes, the Tailless Tyke swung about and galloped after his lord.

  CHAPTER 13

  The Face in the Frame

  ALL FRIDAY, McAdam never left the kitchen. He sat opposite the Cup, as though in a trance; and Red Wull lay motionless at his feet.

  Saturday came, and still the two never budged. Toward evening, the little man stood up, all in a tremble, and took the Cup down from the mantelpiece; then he sat down again with it in his arms.

  “Eh, Wullie, Wullie, is it a dream? Have they took her from us? Eh, but it’s you and I alone, lad.”

  He hugged it to him, crying silently, and rocking to and fro like a mother with a dying child. A
nd Red Wull sat up on his haunches, and moved his head from side to side in sympathy.

  As the dark was falling, David looked in.

  At the sound of the opening door, the little man swung around noiselessly, the Cup nursed in his arms, and glared, sullen and suspicious, at the boy; yet seemed not to recognize him. In the half-light, David could see the tears running down the pinched little face.

  “Upon my life, he’s going mad!” was his comment as he turned away to Kenmuir. And again the mourners were left alone.

  “A few hours now, Wullie,” the little man cried, “and she’ll be gone. We won her, Wullie, you and I, won her fair and square: she has lit up the house for us; she has softened all things for us—and God knows we needed it; she was the only thing we had to look to and love. And now they’re taking her away, and it will be night again. We’ve cherished her, we’ve cared for her, we’ve loved her like our own; and now she must go to strangers who know her not.”

  He rose to his feet, and the great dog rose with him. His voice lifted to a wail, and he swayed with the Cup in his arms till it seemed he must fall.

  “Did they win her fair and square, Wullie? No; they plotted, they planned, they worked against us, every one of them, and they beat us. Ay, and now they’re robbin’ us—robbin’ us! But they shall not have her. Ours or nobody’s, Wullie! We’ll destroy her rather than give her up.”

  He banged the Cup down on the table and rushed madly out of the room, Red Wull at his heels. In a moment he came running back, waving a great ax about his head.