eat unwillingly.

The little man in the far corner of the room remains silent, waiting
for his challenge to be taken up. It is in vain. And as he looks at the
range of broad, impassive backs turned on him, he smiles bitterly.

"They dursen't Wullie, not a man of them a'!" he cries.
"They're one--two--three--four--eleven to one, Wullie, and yet
they dursen't. Eleven of them, and every man a coward! Long
Kirby--Thornton--Tupper--Todd--Hoppin--Ross--Burton--and the rest, and
not one but's a bigger man nor me, and yet--Weel, we might ha' kent it.
We should ha' kent Englishmen by noo. They're aye the same and aye have
bin. They tell lies, black lies--"

Tammas is again half out his chair and, only forcibly restrained by the
men on either hand.

"--and then they ha' na the courage to stan' by 'em. Ye're English,
ivery man o' ye, to yer marrow."

The little man's voice rises as he speaks. He seizes the tankard from
the table at his side.

"Englishmen!" he cries, waving it before him. "Here's a health! The best
sheep-dog as iver penned a flock--Adam M'Adam's Red Wull!"

He pauses, the pewter at his lips, and looks at his audience with
flashing eyes. There is no response from them.

"Wullie, here's to you!" he cries. "Luck and life to ye, ma trusty fier!
Death and defeat to yer enemies!"

"'The warld's warld's wrack we share o't,
The warstle and the care o't;"

He raises the tankard and drains it to its uttermost dreg.

Then drawing himself up, he addresses his audience once more:

"An' noo I'll warn ye aince and for a', and ye may tell James Moore I
said it: He may plot agin us, Wullie and me; he may threaten us; he may
win the Cup outright for his muckle favorite; but there was niver a man
or dog yet as did Adam M'Adam and his Red Wull a hurt but in the end he
wush't his mither hadna borne him."

A little later, and he walks out of the inn, the Tailless Tyke at his
heels.

After he is gone it is Rob Saunderson who says: "The little mon's mad;
he'll stop at nothin"; and Tammas who answers:

"Nay; not even murder."

* * * * *

The little man had aged much of late. His hair was quite white, his eyes
unnaturally bright, and his hands were never still, as though he were in
everlasting pain. He looked the picture of disease.

After Owd Bob's second victory he had become morose and untalkative. At
home he often sat silent for hours together, drinking and glaring at the