Bob Son of Battle [61]
at least give them time to turn round. He paused.
"My suggestion is: That every man-jack of you who owns a sheep-dog ties him up at night."
The farmers were given half an hour to consider the proposal, and clustered in knots talking it over. Many an eye was directed on M'Adam; but that little man appeared all unconscious.
"Weel, Mr. Saunderson," he was saying in, shrill accents, "and shall ye tie Shep?"
"What d'yo' think?" asked Rob, eying the man at whom the measure was aimed.
"Why, it's this way, I'm thinkin'," the little man replied. "Gin ye haud Shep's the guilty one I wad, by all manner o' means--or shootin'd be ailbins better. If not, why "--he shrugged his shoulders significantly; and having shown his hand and driven the nail well home, the little man left the meeting.
James Moore stayed to see the Parson's resolution negatived, by a large majority, and then he too quitted the hail. He had foreseen the result, and, previous to the meeting, had warned the Parson how it would be.
"Tie up!" he cried almost indignantly, as Owd Bob came galloping up to his whistle; "I think I see myself chainin' yo', owd lad, like ony murderer. Why, it's yo' has kept the Killer off Kenmuir so far, I'll lay."
At the lodge-gate was M'Adam, for once without his familiar spirit, playing with the lodge-keeper's child; for the little man loved all children but his own, and was beloved of them. As the Master approached he looked up.
"Wed, Moore," he called, "and are you gaein' to tie yer dog?"
"I will if you will yours," the Master answered grimly.
"Na," the little man replied, "it's Wullie as frichts the Killer aff the Grange. That's why I've left him there noo."
"It's the same wi' me," the Master said. He's not come to Kenmuir yet, nor he'll not so long as Th' Owd Un's loose, I reck'n."
"Loose or tied, for the matter o' that," the little man rejoined, "Kenmuir'll escape." He 'made the statement dogmatically, snapping his lips.
The Master frowned.
"Why that?" he asked.
"Ha' ye no heard what they're sayin'?" the little man inquired with raised eyebrows.
"Nay; what?"
"Why, that the mere repitation o' th' best sheep-dog in the North' should keep him aff. An' I guess they're reet," and he laughed shrilly as he spoke.
The Master passed on, puzzled.
"Which road are ye gaein' hame?" M'Adam called after him. "Because," with a polite smile, "I'll tak' t'ither."
"I'm off by the Windy Brae," the Master answered, striding on. "Squire asked me to 'leave a note wi' his shepherd t'other side o' the Chair." So he headed away to the left, making for home by the route along the Silver Mere.
ft is a long sweep of almost unbroken moorland, the well-called Windy Brae; sloping gently down in mile on mile of heather from the Mere Marches on the top to the fringe of the Silver Mere below. In all that waste of moor the only break is the quaint-shaped Giant's Chair, puzzle of geologists, looking as though plumped down by accident in the heathery wild. The ground rises suddenly from the uniform grade of the Brae; up it goes, ever growing steeper, until at length it runs abruptly into a sheer curtain of rock--the Fall--which rises perpendicular some forty feet, on the top of which rests that tiny grassy bowl--not twenty yards across--they call the Scoop.
The Scoop forms the seat of the Chair and reposes on its collar of rock, cool and green and out of the world, like wine in a metal cup; in front is the forty-foot Fall; behind, rising sheer again, the wall of rock which makes the back of the Chair. Inaccessible from above, the only means of entrance to that little deli are two narrow sheep-tracks, which crawl dangerously up between the sheer wall on the one hand and the sheer Fall on the other, entering it at opposite sides.
It stands out clear-cut from the gradual incline, that peculiar eminence; yet as the Master and Owd Bob debouched on to the Brae it was already invisible in the darkening night.
Through the heather the two swung, the Master thinking now with a smile of David and Maggie; wondering
"My suggestion is: That every man-jack of you who owns a sheep-dog ties him up at night."
The farmers were given half an hour to consider the proposal, and clustered in knots talking it over. Many an eye was directed on M'Adam; but that little man appeared all unconscious.
"Weel, Mr. Saunderson," he was saying in, shrill accents, "and shall ye tie Shep?"
"What d'yo' think?" asked Rob, eying the man at whom the measure was aimed.
"Why, it's this way, I'm thinkin'," the little man replied. "Gin ye haud Shep's the guilty one I wad, by all manner o' means--or shootin'd be ailbins better. If not, why "--he shrugged his shoulders significantly; and having shown his hand and driven the nail well home, the little man left the meeting.
James Moore stayed to see the Parson's resolution negatived, by a large majority, and then he too quitted the hail. He had foreseen the result, and, previous to the meeting, had warned the Parson how it would be.
"Tie up!" he cried almost indignantly, as Owd Bob came galloping up to his whistle; "I think I see myself chainin' yo', owd lad, like ony murderer. Why, it's yo' has kept the Killer off Kenmuir so far, I'll lay."
At the lodge-gate was M'Adam, for once without his familiar spirit, playing with the lodge-keeper's child; for the little man loved all children but his own, and was beloved of them. As the Master approached he looked up.
"Wed, Moore," he called, "and are you gaein' to tie yer dog?"
"I will if you will yours," the Master answered grimly.
"Na," the little man replied, "it's Wullie as frichts the Killer aff the Grange. That's why I've left him there noo."
"It's the same wi' me," the Master said. He's not come to Kenmuir yet, nor he'll not so long as Th' Owd Un's loose, I reck'n."
"Loose or tied, for the matter o' that," the little man rejoined, "Kenmuir'll escape." He 'made the statement dogmatically, snapping his lips.
The Master frowned.
"Why that?" he asked.
"Ha' ye no heard what they're sayin'?" the little man inquired with raised eyebrows.
"Nay; what?"
"Why, that the mere repitation o' th' best sheep-dog in the North' should keep him aff. An' I guess they're reet," and he laughed shrilly as he spoke.
The Master passed on, puzzled.
"Which road are ye gaein' hame?" M'Adam called after him. "Because," with a polite smile, "I'll tak' t'ither."
"I'm off by the Windy Brae," the Master answered, striding on. "Squire asked me to 'leave a note wi' his shepherd t'other side o' the Chair." So he headed away to the left, making for home by the route along the Silver Mere.
ft is a long sweep of almost unbroken moorland, the well-called Windy Brae; sloping gently down in mile on mile of heather from the Mere Marches on the top to the fringe of the Silver Mere below. In all that waste of moor the only break is the quaint-shaped Giant's Chair, puzzle of geologists, looking as though plumped down by accident in the heathery wild. The ground rises suddenly from the uniform grade of the Brae; up it goes, ever growing steeper, until at length it runs abruptly into a sheer curtain of rock--the Fall--which rises perpendicular some forty feet, on the top of which rests that tiny grassy bowl--not twenty yards across--they call the Scoop.
The Scoop forms the seat of the Chair and reposes on its collar of rock, cool and green and out of the world, like wine in a metal cup; in front is the forty-foot Fall; behind, rising sheer again, the wall of rock which makes the back of the Chair. Inaccessible from above, the only means of entrance to that little deli are two narrow sheep-tracks, which crawl dangerously up between the sheer wall on the one hand and the sheer Fall on the other, entering it at opposite sides.
It stands out clear-cut from the gradual incline, that peculiar eminence; yet as the Master and Owd Bob debouched on to the Brae it was already invisible in the darkening night.
Through the heather the two swung, the Master thinking now with a smile of David and Maggie; wondering