ket days he would execute some unaccountable
maneuvre, and... strange shepherd would ask: "What's the gray dog at?"
To which the nearest Dalesman would reply: "Nay, I canno tell ye! But
he's reet enough. Yon's Owd Bob o' Kenmuir."

Whereon the stranger would prick his ears and watch with close
attention.

"Yon's Owd Bob o' Kenmuir, is he?" he would say; for already among the
faculty the name was becoming known. And never in such a case did the
young dog fail to justify the faith of his supporters.

It came, therefore, as a keen disappointment to every Dalesman, from
Herbert Trotter, Secretary of the Trials, to little Billy Thornton, when
the Master persisted in his decision not to run the dog for the Cup in
the approaching Dale Trials; and that though parson, squire, and even
Lady Eleanour essayed to shake his purpose. It was nigh fifty years
since Rex son o' Rally had won back the Trophy for the land that gave
it birth; it was time, they thought, for a Daleland dog, a Gray Dog of
Kenmuir--the terms are practically synonymous--to bring it home again.
And Tammas, that polished phrase-maker, was only expressing the feelings
of every Dalesman in the room when, one night at the Arms, he declared
of Owd Bob that "to ha' run was to ha' won." At which M'Adam sniggered
audibly and winked at Red Wull. "To ha' run was to ha' one--lickin'; to
rin next year'll be to--"

"Win next year." Tammas interposed dogmatically. "Onless"--with
shivering sarcasm--"you and yer Wullie are thinkin' o' winnin'."

The little man rose from his solitary seat at the back of the room and
pattered across. "Wullie and I are thinkin' o' t," he whispered loudly
in the old man's ear. "And mair: what Adam M'Adam and his Red Wull think
o' doin', that, ye may remairk, Mr. Thornton, they do. Next year we rin,
and next year--we win. Come, Wullie, we'll leave 'em to chew that"; and
he marched out of the room amid the jeers of the assembled topers.

When quiet was restored, it was Jim Mason who declared: "One thing
certain, win or no, they'll not be far off."

* * * * *

Meanwhile the summer ended abruptly. Hard on the heels of a sweltering
autumn the winter came down. In that year the Daleland assumed very
early its white cloak. The Silver Mere was soon ice-veiled; the Wastrel
rolled sullenly down below Kenmuir, its creeks and quiet places tented
with jagged sheets of ice; while the Scaur and Muir Pike raised hoary
heads ag