perspiration stood upon his forehead. Again he began: "David, after I
saw ye this afternoon steppin' doon the hill--" Again he paused. His
glance rested unconsciously upon the coat. David mistook the look;
mistook the dimness in his father's eyes; mistook the tremor in his
voice.

"Here 'tis! tak' yo' coat!" he cried passionately; and, tearing it off,
flung it down at his father's feet. "Tak' it--and---and--curse yo'."

He banged out of the room and ran upstairs; and, locking himself in,
threw himself on to his bed and sobbed.

Red Wull made a movement to fly at the retreating figure; then turned
to his master, his stump-tail vibrating with pleasure. But little M'Adam
was looking at the wet coat now lying in a wet bundle at his feet.

"Curse ye," he repeated softly. "Curse ye--ye heard him. Wullie?"

A bitter smile crept across his face. He looked again at the picture now
lying crushed in his hand.

"Ye canna say I didna try; ye canna ask me to agin," he muttered, and
slipped it into his pocket. "Niver agin, Wullie; not if the Queen were
to ask it."

Then he went out into the gloom and drizzle, still smiling the same
bitter smile.

* * * * *

That night, when it came to closing-time at the Sylvester Arms, Jem
Burton found a little gray-haired figure lying on the floor in the
tap-room. At the little man's head lay a great dog.

"Yo' beast!" said the righteous publican, regarding the figure of his
best customer with fine scorn. Then catching sight of a photograph in
the little man's hand:

"Oh, yo're that sort, are yo', foxy?" he leered. "Gie us a look at 'er,"
and he tried to disengage the picture from the other's grasp. But at
the attempt the great dog rose, bared his teeth, and assumed such a
diabolical expression that the big landlord retreated hurriedly behind
the bar.

"Two on ye!" he shouted viciously, rattling his heels; "beasts baith!"

PART III THE SHEPHERDS' TROPHY

Chapter IX. RIVALS

M'ADAM never forgave his son. After the scene on the evening of the
funeral there could be no alternative but war for all time. The
little man had attempted to humble himself, and been rejected; and
the bitterness of defeat, when he had deserved victory, rankled like a
poisoned barb in his bosom.

Yet the heat of his indignation was directed not against David, but
against the Master of Kenmuir. To the influence and agency of James
Moore he attributed his discomfitu