Bob Son of Battle [11]
ways in, Mister M'Adam, and tak' a soop o' tea," she called hospitably.
"Thank ye kindly, Mrs. Moore, I will," he answered, politely for him. And this one good thing must be allowed of Adam M'Adam:
that, if there was only one woman of whom he was ever known to speak well, there was also only one, in the whole course of his life, against whom he ever insinuated evil--and that was years afterward, when men said his brain was sapped. Flouts and jeers he had for every man, but a woman, good or bad, was sacred to him. For the sex that had given him his mother and his wife he had that sentiment of tender reverence which, if a man still preserve, he cannot be altogether bad. As he turned into the house he looked back at Red Wull.
"Ay, we may leave him," he said. "That is, gin ye're no afraid, Mr. Thornton?"
Of what happened while the men were within doors, it is enough to tell two things. First, that Owd Bob was no bully. Second, this: In the code of sheep-dog honor there is written a word in stark black letters; and opposite it another word, writ large in the color of blood. The first is "Sheep-murder"; the second, "Death." It is the one crime only to be wiped away in blood; and to accuse of the crime is to offer the one unpardonable insult. Every sheep-dog knows it, and every shepherd.
That afternoon, as the men still talked, the quiet echoes of the farm rung with a furious animal cry, twice repeated: "Shot for sheepmurder"--" Shot for sheep-murder"; followed by a hollow stillness.
The two men finished their colloquy. The matter was concluded peacefully, mainly owing to the pacifying influence of Mrs. Moore. Together the three went out into the yard; Mrs. Moore seizing the opportunity to shyly speak on David's behalf.
"lie's such a good little lad, I do think," she was saying.
"Ye should ken, Mrs. Moore," the little man answered, a thought bitterly; "ye see enough of him."
"Yo' mun be main proud of un, mester," the woman continued, heedless of the sneer: "an' 'im growin' such a gradely lad."
M'Adam shrugged his shoulders.
"I barely ken the lad," he said. "By sight I know him, of course, but barely to speak to. He's but seldom at hame."
"An' hoo proud his mother'd be if she could see him," the woman continued, well aware of his one tender place. "Eh, but she was fond o' him, so she was."
An angry flush stole over the little man's face. Well he understood the implied rebuke; and it hurt him like a knife.
"Ay, ay, Mrs. Moore," he began. Then breaking off, and looking about him-- "Where's ma Wullie?" he cried excitedly. "James Moore!" whipping round on the Master, "ma Wullie's gone--gone, I say!"
Elizabeth Moore turned away indignantly. "I do declar' he tak's more fash after yon little yaller beastie than iver he does after his own flesh," she muttered.
"Wullie, ma we doggie! Wullie, where are ye? James Moore, he's gone--ma Wullie's gone!" cried the little man, running about the yard, searching everywhere.
"Cannot 'a' gotten far," said the Master, reassuringly, looking about him.
"Niver no tellin'," said Sam'l, appearing on the scene, pig-bucket in hand. "I inisdoot yo'll iver see your dog agin, mister." He turned sorrowfully to M'Adam.
That little man, all dishevelled, and with the perspiration standing on his face, came hurrying out of the cow-shed and danced up to the Master.
"It's robbed I am--robbed, I tell ye!" he cried recklessly. "Ma wee Wull's bin stolen while I was ben your hoose, James Moore!"
"Yo' munna say that, ma mon. No robbin' at Kenmuir," the Master answered sternly.
"Then where is he? It's for you to say."
"I've ma own idee, I 'aye," Sam'l announced opportunely, pig-bucket uplifted.
M'Adam turned on him.
"What, man? What is it?"
"I misdoot yo'll iver see your dog agin, mister," Sam'l repeated, as if he was supplying the key to the mystery.
"Noo, Sam'l, if yo' know owt tell it, "ordered his master.
Sam'l grunted sulkily.
"Wheer's oor Bob, then?" he asked.
At that M'Adam turned on the Master.
'Tis that, nae doot. It's yer
"Thank ye kindly, Mrs. Moore, I will," he answered, politely for him. And this one good thing must be allowed of Adam M'Adam:
that, if there was only one woman of whom he was ever known to speak well, there was also only one, in the whole course of his life, against whom he ever insinuated evil--and that was years afterward, when men said his brain was sapped. Flouts and jeers he had for every man, but a woman, good or bad, was sacred to him. For the sex that had given him his mother and his wife he had that sentiment of tender reverence which, if a man still preserve, he cannot be altogether bad. As he turned into the house he looked back at Red Wull.
"Ay, we may leave him," he said. "That is, gin ye're no afraid, Mr. Thornton?"
Of what happened while the men were within doors, it is enough to tell two things. First, that Owd Bob was no bully. Second, this: In the code of sheep-dog honor there is written a word in stark black letters; and opposite it another word, writ large in the color of blood. The first is "Sheep-murder"; the second, "Death." It is the one crime only to be wiped away in blood; and to accuse of the crime is to offer the one unpardonable insult. Every sheep-dog knows it, and every shepherd.
That afternoon, as the men still talked, the quiet echoes of the farm rung with a furious animal cry, twice repeated: "Shot for sheepmurder"--" Shot for sheep-murder"; followed by a hollow stillness.
The two men finished their colloquy. The matter was concluded peacefully, mainly owing to the pacifying influence of Mrs. Moore. Together the three went out into the yard; Mrs. Moore seizing the opportunity to shyly speak on David's behalf.
"lie's such a good little lad, I do think," she was saying.
"Ye should ken, Mrs. Moore," the little man answered, a thought bitterly; "ye see enough of him."
"Yo' mun be main proud of un, mester," the woman continued, heedless of the sneer: "an' 'im growin' such a gradely lad."
M'Adam shrugged his shoulders.
"I barely ken the lad," he said. "By sight I know him, of course, but barely to speak to. He's but seldom at hame."
"An' hoo proud his mother'd be if she could see him," the woman continued, well aware of his one tender place. "Eh, but she was fond o' him, so she was."
An angry flush stole over the little man's face. Well he understood the implied rebuke; and it hurt him like a knife.
"Ay, ay, Mrs. Moore," he began. Then breaking off, and looking about him-- "Where's ma Wullie?" he cried excitedly. "James Moore!" whipping round on the Master, "ma Wullie's gone--gone, I say!"
Elizabeth Moore turned away indignantly. "I do declar' he tak's more fash after yon little yaller beastie than iver he does after his own flesh," she muttered.
"Wullie, ma we doggie! Wullie, where are ye? James Moore, he's gone--ma Wullie's gone!" cried the little man, running about the yard, searching everywhere.
"Cannot 'a' gotten far," said the Master, reassuringly, looking about him.
"Niver no tellin'," said Sam'l, appearing on the scene, pig-bucket in hand. "I inisdoot yo'll iver see your dog agin, mister." He turned sorrowfully to M'Adam.
That little man, all dishevelled, and with the perspiration standing on his face, came hurrying out of the cow-shed and danced up to the Master.
"It's robbed I am--robbed, I tell ye!" he cried recklessly. "Ma wee Wull's bin stolen while I was ben your hoose, James Moore!"
"Yo' munna say that, ma mon. No robbin' at Kenmuir," the Master answered sternly.
"Then where is he? It's for you to say."
"I've ma own idee, I 'aye," Sam'l announced opportunely, pig-bucket uplifted.
M'Adam turned on him.
"What, man? What is it?"
"I misdoot yo'll iver see your dog agin, mister," Sam'l repeated, as if he was supplying the key to the mystery.
"Noo, Sam'l, if yo' know owt tell it, "ordered his master.
Sam'l grunted sulkily.
"Wheer's oor Bob, then?" he asked.
At that M'Adam turned on the Master.
'Tis that, nae doot. It's yer