k of
the inn winds the Silver Lea. Just there a plank bridge crosses the
stream, and, beyond, the Murk Muir Pass crawls up the sheer side of the
Scaur on to the Mere Marches.

At the head of the Pass, before it debouches on to those lonely
sheep-walks which divide the two dales, is that hollow, shuddering with
gloomy possibilities, aptly called the Devil's Bowl. In its centre the
Lone Tarn, weirdly suggestive pool, lifts its still face to the sky. It
was beside that black, frozen water, across whose cold surface the storm
was swirling in white snow-wraiths, that, many, many years ago (not in
this century), old Andrew Moore came upon the mother of the Gray Dogs of
Kenmuir.

In the North, every one who has heard of the Muir Pike--and who has
not?--has heard of the Gray Dogs of Kenmuir, every one who has heard
of the Shepherd's Trophy--and who has not?--knows their fame. In that
country of good dogs and jealous masters the pride of place has long
been held unchallenged. Whatever line may claim to follow the Gray Dogs
always lead the van. And there is a saying in the land: "Faithfu' as the
Moores and their tykes."

* * * * *

On the top dresser to the right of the fireplace in the kitchen
of Kenmuir lies the family Bible. At the end you will find a loose
sheet--the pedigree of the Gray Dogs; at the beginning, pasted on the
inside, an almost similar sheet, long since yellow with age--the family
register of the Moores of Kenmuir.

Running your eye down the loose leaf, once, twice, and again it will be
caught by a small red cross beneath a name, and under the cross the one
word "Cup." Lastly, opposite the name of Rex son of Rally, are two of
those proud, tell-tale marks. The cup referred to is the renowned Dale
Cup--Champion Challenge Dale Cup, open to the world. Had Rex won it but
once again the Shepherds' Trophy, which many men have lived to win, and
died still striving after, would have come to rest forever in the little
gray house below the Pike.

It was not to be, however. Comparing the two sheets, you read beneath
the dog's name a date and a pathetic legend; and on the other sheet,
written in his son's boyish hand, beneath the name of Andrew Moore the
same date and the same legend.

From that day James Moore, then but a boy, was master of Kenmuir.

So past Grip and Rex and Rally, and a hundred others, until at the foot
of the page you come to that last name--Bob, son of Battle.