appy till the Cup was his own--won outright.

At home David might barely enter the room There the trophy stood.

"I'll not ha' ye touch ma Cup, ye dirty-fingered, ill-begotten wastrel.
Wullie and me won it--you'd naught to do wi' it. Go you to James Moore
and James Moore's dog."

"Ay, and shall I tak' Cup wi' me? or will ye bide till it's took from
ye?"

So the two went on; and every day the tension approached nearer
breaking-point.

In the Dale the little man met with no sympathy. The hearts of the
Dalesmen were to a man with Owd Bob and his master.

Whereas once at the Sylvester Arms his shrill, ill tongue had been
rarely still, now he maintained a sullen silence; Jem Burton, at least,
had no cause of complaint. Crouched away in a corner, with Red Wull
beside him, the little man would sit watching and listening as the
Dalesmen talked of Owd Bob's doings, his staunchness, sagacity, and
coming victory.

Sometimes he could restrain himself no longer. Then he would spring
to his feet, and stand, a little swaying figure, and denounce them
passionately in almost pathetic eloquence. These orations always
concluded in set fashion.

"Ye're all agin us!" the little man would cry in quivering voice.

"We are that," Tammas would answer complacently.

"Fair means or foul, ye're content sae lang as Wullie and me are beat.
I wonder ye dinna poison him--a little arsenic, and the way's clear for
your Bob."

"'The way is clear enough wi'oot that," from Tammas caustically.

Then a lengthy silence, only broken by that exceeding bitter cry: "Eh,
Wullie, Wullie, they're all agin us!"

* * * * *

And always the rivals--red and gray--went about seeking their
opportunity. But the Master, with his commanding presence and stern
eyes, was ever ready for them. Toward the end, M'Adam, silent and
sneering, would secretly urge on Red Wull to the attack; until, one day
in Grammoch-town, James Moore turned on him, his blue eyes glittering.
"D'yo' think, yo' little fule," he cried in that hard voice of his,
"that onst they got set we should iver git either of them off alive?" It
seemed to strike the little man as a novel idea; for, from that moment,
he was ever the first in his feverish endeavors to oppose his small
form, buffer-like, between the would-be combatants.

* * * * *

Curse as M'Adam might, threaten as he might, when the time came Owd Bob
won.

The styles of