insufficiencies fired the little man as
surely as a lighted match powder.

"Ye maun be cauld, standin' there so. Rin ye doon and fetch oor little
frien'"--a reference to a certain strap hanging in the kitchen. "I'll
see if I can warm ye."

David turned and stumbled down the unlit, narrow stairs. The hard, cold
boards struck like death against his naked feet. At his heels followed
Red Wull, his hot breath fanning the boy's bare legs.

So into the kitchen and back up the stairs, and Red Wull always
following.

"I'll no despair yet o' teachin' ye the fifth commandment, though I kill
masel' in doin' it!" cried the little man, seizing the strap from the
boy's numb grasp.

* * * * *

When it was over, M'Adam turned, breathless, away. At the threshold
of the room he stopped and looked round: a little, dim-lit, devilish
figure, framed in the door; while from the blackness behind, Red Wull's
eyes gleamed yellow.

Glancing back, the little man caught such an expression on David's
face that for once he was fairly afraid. He banged the door and hobbled
actively down the stairs.

Chapter VII. THE WHITE WINTER

M'ADAM--in his sober moments at least--never touched David again;
instead, he devoted himself to the more congenial exercise of the
whiplash of his tongue. And he was wise; for David, who was already
nigh a head the taller of the two, and comely and strong in proportion,
could, if he would, have taken his father in the hollow of his hand and
crumpled him like a dry leaf. Moreover, with his tongue, at least, the
little man enjoyed the noble pleasure of making the boy wince. And so
the war was carried on none the less vindictively.

Meanwhile another summer was passing away, and every day brought fresh
proofs of the prowess of Owd Bob. Tammas, whose stock of yarns anent Rex
son of Rally had after forty years' hard wear begun to pall on the
loyal ears of even old Jonas, found no lack of new material now. In
the Dalesman's Daughter in Silverdale and in the Border Ram at
Grammoch-town, each succeeding market day brought some fresh tale. Men
told how the gray dog had outdone Gypsy Jack, the sheep-sneak; how he
had cut out a Kenmuir shearling from the very centre of Londesley's
pack; and a thousand like stories.

The Gray Dogs of Kenmuir have always been equally heroes and favorites
in the Daleland. And the confidence of the Dalesmen in Owd Bob was now
invincible. Sometimes on mar