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brave labors.

Is he no a granā€™ worker, Wullie? ā€˜Tis a pleasure to watch him, his hands in his pockets, his eyes turned heavenward!ā€ as the boy snatched a hard-earned momentā€™s rest. ā€œYou and I, Wullie, weā€™ll brakā€™ oorselā€™s slavinā€™ for him while he looks on and laffs.ā€

And so on, the whole day through, week in, week out; till he sickened with weariness of it all.

In his darkest hours David thought sometimes to run away. He was miserably alone on the cold bosom of the world. The very fact that he was the son of his father isolated him in the Daleland. Naturally of a reserved disposition, he had no single friend outside Kenmuir. And it was only the thought of his friends there that witheld him. He could not bring himself to part from them; they were all he had in the world.

So he worked on at the Grange, miserably, doggedly, taking blows and abuse alike in burning silence. But every evening, when work was ended, he stepped off to his other home beyond the Stony Bottom. And on Sundays and holidaysā€”for of these latter he took, unasking, what he knew to be his dueā€” all day long, from cock-crowing to the going down of the sun, he would pass at Kenmuir. In this one matter the hoy was invincibly stubborn. Nothing his father could say or do sufficed to break him of the habit. He endured everything with white-lipped, silent doggedness, and still held on his way.

Once past the Stony Bottom, he threw his troubles behind him with a courage that did him honor. Of all the people at Kenmuir two only ever dreamed the whole depth of his unhappiness, and that not through David. James Moore suspected something of it all, for he knew more of Mā€™Adam than did the others. While Owd Bob knew it as did no one else. He could tell it from the touch of the boyā€™s hand on his head; and the story was writ large upon his face for a dog to read. And he would follow the lad about with a compassion in his sad gray eyes greater than words.

David might well compare his gray friend at Kenmuir with that other at the Grange.

The Tailless Tyke had now grown into an immense dog, heavy of muscle and huge of bone. A great bull head; undershot jaw, square and lengthy and terrible; vicious, yellow-gleaming eyes; cropped ears; and an expression incomparably savage. His coat was a tawny, lion-like yellow, short, harsh, dense; and his back, running up from shoulder to loins, ended abruptly in the knob-like tail. He looked like the devil of a dogsā€™ hell. And his reputation was as bad as his looks. He never attacked unprovoked; but a challenge was never ignored, and he was greedy of insults. Already he had nigh killed Rob Saundersonā€™s collie, Shep; Jem Burtonā€™s Monkey fled incontinently at the sound of his approach; while he had even fought a round with that redoubtable trio, the Vexer, Venus, and Van Tromp.

Nor, in the matter of war, did he confine himself to his own kind. His huge strength and indomitable courage made him the match of almost anything that moved. Long Kirby once threatened him with a broomstick; the smith never did it again. While in the Border Ram he attacked Big Bell, the Squireā€™s underkeeper, with such murderous fury that it took all the men in the room to pull han off.

More than once had he and Owd Bob essayed to wipe out mutual memories, Red Wull, in this case only, the aggressor. As yet, however, while they fenced a moment for that deadly throat-grip, the value of which each knew so well, James Moore had always seized the chance to intervene.

ā€œThatā€™s right, hide him ahint yer petticoats,ā€ sneered Mā€™Adam on one of these occasions.

ā€œHide? Itā€™ll not be him Iā€™ll hide, I warn you, Mā€™Adam,ā€ the Master answered grimly, as he stood, twirling his good oak stick between the would-be duellists. Whereat there was a loud laugh at the little manā€™s expense.

It seemed as if there were to be other points of rivalry between the two than memories. For, in the matter of his own businessā€”the handling of sheepā€”Red Wull bid fair to be second only throughout the Daleland to the Gray Dog of Kenmuir. And Mā€™Adam was patient and painstaking in the training of his Wullie in a manner to astonish David. It would have been touching, had it not been so unnatural in view of his treatment of his own blood, to watch the tender carefulness with which the little man moulded the dog beneath his hands. After a promising display he would stand, rubbing his palms together, as near content as ever he was.

ā€œWeel done, Wullie! Weel done. Bide a wee and weā€™ll show ā€˜em a thing or two, you and I, Wullie.

ā€œā€˜The wandā€™s wrack we share oā€™t, The warstie and the care oā€™t.ā€™

For itā€™s you and I alane, lad.ā€ And the dog would trot up to him, place his great forepaws on his shoulders, and stand thus with his great head overtopping his masterā€™s, his ears back, and stump tail vibrating.

You saw them at their best when thus together, displaying each his one soft side to the other.

From the very first David and Red Wull were open enemies: under the circumstances, indeed, nothing else was possible. Sometimes the great dog would follow on the ladā€™s heels with surly, greedy eyes, never leaving him from sunrise to sundown, till David could hardly hold his hands.

So matters went on for a never-ending year. Then there came a climax.

One evening, on a day throughout which Red Wull had dogged him thus hungrily, David, his work finished, went to pick up his coat, which he had left hard by. On it lay Red Wull.

ā€œGit off ma coat!ā€ the boy ordered angrily. marching up. But the great dog never stirred: he lifted a lip to show a fence of white, even teeth, and seemed to sink lower in the ground; his head on his paws, his eyes in his forehead.

ā€œCome and take it!ā€ he seemed to say.

Now what, between master and dog, David had endured almost more than he could bear that day.

ā€œYoā€™ wonā€™t, wonā€™t yoā€™, girt brute!ā€ he shouted, and bending, snatched a corner of the coat and attempted to jerk it away. At that, Red Wull rose, shivering, to his feet, and with a low gurgle sprang at the boy.

David, quick as a flash, dodged, bent, and picked up an ugly stake, lying at his feet. Swinging round, all in a moment, he dealt his antagonist a mighty buffet on the side of the head. Dazed with the blow, the great dog fell; then, recovering himself, with a terrible, deep roar he sprang again. Then it must have gone hard with the boy, fine-grown, muscular young giant though he was. For Red Wull was now in the first bloom of that great strength which earned him afterward an undying notoriety in the land.

As it chanced, however, Mā€™Adam had watched the scene from the kitchen. And now he came hurrying out of the house, shrieking commands and curses at the combatants. As Red Wull sprang, he interposed between the two, head back and eyes flashing. His small person received the full shock of the charge. He staggered, but recovered, and in an imperative voice ordered the dog to heel.

Then he turned on David, seized the stake from his hand, and began furiously belaboring the boy.

ā€œIā€™ll teach ye to strikeā€”a puirā€”dumbā€”harrnlessā€”creetur, yeā€”cruelā€” cruelā€“lad!ā€ he cried. ā€œHoo daur ye strikeā€”maā€“-Wullie? yerā€” fatherā€™sā€“-Wullie? Adamā€”M ā€˜Adamā€™sā€”Red Wull?ā€ He was panting from his exertions, and his eyes were blazing. ā€œI pit up as best I can wiā€™ all manner oā€™ disrespect to maselā€™; but when it comes to takinā€™ ma puir Wullie, I cantia thole it. Haā€™ ye no heart?ā€ he asked, unconscious of the irony of the question.

ā€œAs much as some, I reckā€™n,ā€ David muttered.

ā€œEh, whatā€™s that? What dā€™ye say?ā€

ā€œYe may thrash me till yeā€™re blind; and itā€™s nobā€™but yer duty; but if only one daurs so much as to look at yer Wullie yeā€™re mad,ā€ the boy answered bitterly. And with that he turned away defiantly and openly in the direction of Kenmuir.

Mā€™Adam made a step forward, and then stopped.

ā€œIā€™ll see ye agin, ma lad, this eveninā€™,ā€ he cried with cruel significance.

ā€œI doot but yoā€™il be too drunk to see owtā€” except, ā€˜appen, your bottle,ā€ the boy shouted back; and swaggered down the hill.

At Kenmuir that night the marked and particular kindness of Elizabeth Moore was too much for the overstrung lad. Overcome by the contrast of her sweet motherliness, he burst into a storm of invective against his father, his home, his lifeā€”everything.

ā€œDonā€™t ā€˜ee, Davie, donā€™t ā€˜ee, deane!ā€ cried Mrs. Moore, much distressed. And taking him to her she talked to the great, sobbing boy as though he were a child. At length he lifted his face and looked up; and, seeing the white, wan countenance of his dear comforter, was struck with tender remorse that he had given way and pained her, who looked so frail and thin herself.

He mastered himself with an effort; and, for the rest of the evening, was his usual cheery self. He teased Maggie into tears; chaffed stolid little Andrew; and bantered Samā€™l Todd until that generally impassive man threatened to bash his snout for him.

Yet it was with a great swallowing at his throat that, later, he turned down the slope for home.

James Moore and Parson Leggy accompanied him to the bridge over the Wastrel, and stood a while watching as he disappeared into the summer night.

ā€œYonā€™s a good lad,ā€ said the Master half to himself.

ā€œYes,ā€ the parson replied ; ā€œI always thought there was good in the boy, if only his fatherā€™d give him a chance. And look at the way Owd Bob there follows him. Thereā€™s not another soul outside Kenmuir heā€™d do that for.ā€

ā€œAy, sir,ā€ said the Master. ā€œBob knows a mon when he sees one.ā€

ā€œHe does,ā€ acquiesced the other. ā€œAnd by the by, James, the talk in the village is that youā€™ve settled not to run him for the Cup. Is, that so?ā€

The Master nodded.

ā€œIt is, sir. Theyā€™re all mad I should, but I mun cross ā€˜em. They say heā€™s reached his primeā€”and so he has oā€™ his body, but not oā€™ his brain. And a sheepdogā€”unlike other dogsā€”is not at his best till his brain is at its bestā€”and that takes a while developinā€™, same as in a mon, I reckā€™n.ā€

ā€œWell, well,ā€ said the parson, pulling out a favorite phrase, ā€œwaitingā€™s winningā€”waitingā€™s winning.ā€

David slipped up into his room and into bed unseen, he hoped. Alone with the darkness, he allowed himself the rare relief of tears; and at length fell asleep. He awoke to find his father standing at his bedside. The little man held a feeble dip-candle in his hand, which lit his sallow face in crude black and white. In the doorway, dimly outlined, was the great figure of Red Wull.

ā€œWhaur haā€™ ye been the day?ā€ the little man asked. Then, looking down on the white stained face beneath him, he added hurriedly: ā€œIf ye like to lie, Iā€™ll believe ye.ā€

David was out of bed and standing up in his night-shirt. He looked at his father contemptuously.

ā€œI haā€™ bin at Kenmuir. Iā€™ll not lie for yoā€™ ur your likes,ā€ he said proudly.

The little man shrugged his shoulders.

ā€ ā€˜Tell a lee and stick to it,ā€˜is my rule, and. a good one, too, in honest England. I for one ā€˜II no think ony the worse oā€™ ye if yer memory plays yer false.ā€

ā€œDā€™yoā€™ think I care a kick what yoā€™ think oā€™ me?ā€

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