ddled eggs tellin'?" cried Liz Burton.

"Dang his 'ead for him!" shouts Tupper.

"Fill his eye!" says Ned Hoppin.

They jostled round the old man's chair: M'Adam in front; Jem Burton and
Long Kirby leaning over his shoulder; Liz behind her father; Saunderson
and Tupper tackling him on either side; while the rest peered and
elbowed in the rear.

The announcement had fallen like a thunderbolt among them.

Tammas looked slowly up at the little mob of eager faces above him.
Pride at the sensation caused by his news struggled in his countenance
with genuine sorrow for the matter of it.

"Ay, yo' may well 'earken all on yo'. Tis enough to mak' the deadies
listen. I says agin: We's'll no rin oor Bob fot' Cup. And yo' may guess
why. Bain't every mon, Mr. M'Adam, as'd pit aside his chanst o' the Cup,
and that 'maist a gift for him"--M'Adam's tongue was in his cheek--"and
it a certainty," the old man continued warmly, "oot o' respect for his
wife's memory."

The news was received in utter silence. The shock of the surprise,
coupled with the bitterness of the disappointment, froze the slow
tongues of his listeners.

Only one small voice broke the stillness.

"Oh, the feelin' man! He should git a reduction o' rent for sic a
display o' proper speerit. I'll mind Mr. Hornbut to let auld Sylvester
ken o't."

Which he did, and would have got a thrashing for his pains had not Cyril
Gilbraith thrown him out of the parsonage before the angry cleric could
lay hands upon him.

Chapter X. RED WULL WINS

TAMMAS had but told the melancholy truth. Owd Bob was not to run for the
cup. And this self-denying ordinance speaks more for James Moore's love
of his lost wife than many a lordly cenotaph.

To the people of the Daleland, from the Black Water to the market-cross
in Grammoch-town, the news came with the shock of a sudden blow. They
had set their hearts on the Gray Dog's success; and had felt serenely
confident of his victory. But the sting of the matter lay in this: that
now the Tailless Tyke might well win.

M'Adam, on the other hand, was plunged into a fervor of delight at the
news. For to win the Shepherds' Trophy was the goal of his ambition.
David was now less than nothing to the lonely little man, Red Wull
everything to him. And to have that name handed down to posterity,
gallantly holding its place among those of the most famous sheep-dogs of
all time, was his heart's desire.

As Cup Day drew near, the little