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Margaret Sidney - "Five Little Peppers Midway"

Franklin Delano Roosevelt - "The Fireside Chats of Franklin Delano Roosevelt"

Ethel C. Pedley - "Dot and the Kangaroo"

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Bob Son of Battle

A >> Alfred Ollivant >> Bob Son of Battle




In a moment the Master was downstairs and out, examining him.

"Poor old lad, yo' have caught it this time!" he cried. There was a
ragged tear on the dog's cheek; a deep gash in his throat from
which the blood still welled, staining the white escutcheon on his
chest; while head and neck were clotted with the red.

Hastily the Master summoned Maggie. After her, Andrew came
hurrying down. And a little later a tiny, night-clad, naked-footed
figure appeared in the door, wide-eyed, and then fled, screaming.
in the kitchen. Maggie tenderly washed his wounds, and dressed
them with gentle, pitying fingers; and he stood all the while
grateful yet fidgeting, looking up into his master's face as if
imploring to be gone.

"He mun a had a rare tussle wi' some one-- eh, dad?" said the girl,
as she worked.

"Ay; and wi' whom? 'Twasn't for nowt he got fightin', I war'nt. Nay;
he's a tale to tell, has The Owd Un, and--A h-h-h! I thowt as much.
Look 'ee!" For bathing the bloody jaws, he had come upon a cluster
of tawny red hair, hiding in the corners of the lips.

The secret was out. Those few hairs told their own accusing tale.
To but one creature in the Daleland could they belong--" Th'
Tailless Tyke."

"He mun a bin trespassin'!" cried Andrew.

"Ay, and up to some o' his bloody work, I'll lay my life," the
Master answered. "But Th' Owd Un shall show us."

The old dog's hurts proved less severe than had at first seemed
possible. His good gray coat, forest-thick about his throat, had
never served him in such good stead. And at length, the wounds
washed and sewn up, he jumped down all in a hurry from the table
and made for the door.

"Noo, owd lad, yo' may show us," said the Master, and, with
Andrew, hurried after him down the hill, along the stream, and
over Langholm How. And as they neared the Stony Bottom, the
sheep, herding in groups, raised frightened heads to stare.

Of a sudden a cloud of poisonous flies rose, buzzing, up before
them; and there in a dimple of the ground lay a murdered sheep.
Deserted by its comrades, the glazed eyes staring helplessly
upward, the throat horribly worried, it slept its last sleep.

The matter was plain to see. At last the Black Killer had visited
Kenmuir.

"I guessed as much," said the Master, standing over the mangled
body. "Well, it's the worst night's work ever the Killer done. I
reck'n Th' Owd Un come on him while he was at it; and then they
fought. And, ma word! ii munn ha' bin a fight too." For all around
were traces of that terrible struggle:

the earth torn up and tossed, bracken up-Tooted, and throughout
little dabs of wool and tufts of tawny hair, mingling with
dark-stained iron-gray wisps.

James Moore walked slowly over the battlefield, stooping down as
though he were gleaning. And gleaning he was.

A long time he bent so, and at length raised himself.

"The Killer has killed his last," he muttered; "Red Wull has run his
course." Then, turning to Andrew: "Run yo' home, lad, and fetch
the men to carry yon away," pointing to the carcass, "And Bob, lad,
yo 'ye done your work for to-day, and right well too; go yo' home
wi' him. I'm off to see to this!"

He turned and crossed the Stony Bottom. His face was set like a
rock. At length the proof was in his hand. Once and for all the
hill-country should be rid of its scourge.

As he stalked up the hill, a dark head appeared at his knee. Two
big grey eyes; half doubting, half penitent, wholly wistful, looked
up at him, and a silvery brush signalled a mute request.

"Eh, Owd Un, but yo' should ha' gone wi~ Andrew," the Master
said. "Hooiver, as yo~ are here, come along." And he strode away
up the hill, gaunt and menacing, with the gray dog at his heels.

As they approached the house, M'Adam was standing in the door,
sucking his eternal twig. James Moore eyed him closely as he
came, but the sour face framed in the door betrayed nothing.
Sarcasm, surprise, challenge, were all writ there, plain to read; but
no guilty consciousness of the other's errand, no storm of passion
to hide a failing heart. If it was acting it was splendidly done.

As man and dog passed through the gap in the hedge, the
expression on the little man's face changed again. He started
forward.

"James Moore, as I live!" he cried, and advanced with both hands
extended, as though welcoming a long-lost brother. "'Deed and it's
a weary while sin' ye've honored ma puir hoose." And, in fact, it
was nigh twenty years. "I tak' it gey kind in ye to look in on a
lonely auld man. Come ben and let's ha' a crack. James Moore
kens weel hoo welcome he aye is in ma bit biggin'."

The Master ignored the greeting.

"One o' ma sheep been killed back o' t' Dyke," he announced
shortly, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.

"The Killer?"

"The Killer."

The cordiality beaming in every wrinkle of the little man's face
was absorbed in a wondering interest; and that again gave place to
sorrowful sympathy.

"Dear, dear! it's come to that, has it--at last?" he said gently, and
his eyes wandered to the gray dog and dwelt mournfully upon him.
"Man, I'm sorry--I canna tell ye I'm surprised. Masel', I kent it all
alang. But gin Adam M'Adam had tell't ye, no ha' believed him.
Weel, weel, he's lived his life, gin ony dog iver did; and noo he
maun gang where he's sent a many before him. Puir mon! puir
tyke!" He heaved a sigh, profoundly melancholy, tenderly
sympathetic. Then, brightening up a little: "Ye'll ha' come for the
gun?"

James Moore listened to this harangue at first puzzled. Then he
caught the other's meaning, and his eyes flashed. 305

"Ye fool, M'Adarn! did ye hear iver tell o' a sheep-dog worryin' his
master's sheep?"

The little man was smiling and suave again now, rubbing his hands
softly together.

"Ye're right, I never did. But your dog is not as ither dogs--'There's
none like him-- none,' I've heard ye say so yersel, mony a time. An'
I'm wi' ye. There's none like him--for devilment." His voice began
to quiver and his face to blaze. "It's his cursed cunning that's
deceived ivery one but me-- whelp o' Satan that he is!" He
shouldered up to his tall adversary. "If not him, wha else had done
it?" he asked, looking, up into the other's face as if daring him to
speak.

The Master's shaggy eyebrows lowered. He towered above the
other like the Muir Pike above its surrounding hills.

"Wha, ye ask?" he replied coldly, "and I answer you. Your Red
Wull, M'Adam, your Red Wull. It's your Wull's the Black Killer!
It's your Wull's bin the plague o' the land these months past! It's
your Wull's killed ma sheep back o'yon!"

At that all the little man's affected goodhumor fled.

"Ye lee, mon! ye lee!" he cried in a dreadful scream, dancing up to
his antagonist. "I knoo hoo 'twad be. I said so. I see what ye're at.
Ye've found at last--blind that ye've been!--that it's yer am hell's
tyke that's the Killer; and noo ye think by yer leein' impitations to
throw the blame on ma Wullie. Ye rob me o' ma Cup, ye rob me o'
ma son, ye wrang me in ilka thing; there's but ae thing left
me--Wullie. And noo ye're set on takin' him awa'. But ye shall
not--I'll kill ye first!"

He was all a-shake, bobbing up and down like a stopper in a
soda-water bottle, and almost sobbing.

"Ha' ye no wranged me enough wi' oo that? Ye lang-leggit liar, wi'
yer skulkin murderin' tyke!" he cried. "Ye say it's Wullie. Where's
yer proof? "--and he snapped his fingers in the other's face.

The Master was now as calm as his foe was passionate. "Where?"
he replied sternly; why, there!" holding out his right hand. "Yon's
proof enough to hang a hunner'd." For lying in his broad palm was
a little bundle of that damning red hair.

"Where?"

"There!"

"Let's see it!" The little man bent to look closer.

"There's for yer proof!" he cried, and spat deliberately down into
the other's naked palm. Then he stood back, facing his enemy in a
manner to have done credit to a nobler deed.

James Moore strode forward. It looked as if he was about to make
an end of his miserable adversary, so strongly was he moved. His
chest heaved, and the blue eyes blazed. But just as one had thought
to see him take his foe in the hollow of his hand and crush him,
who should come stalking round the corner of the house but the
Tailless Tyke?

A droll spectacle he made, laughable even. at that moment. He
limped sorely, his head and neck were swathed in bandages, and
beneath their ragged fringe the little eyes gleamed out fiery and
bloodshot.

Round the corner he came, unaware of strangers; then straightway
recognizing his visitors, halted abruptly. His hackles ran up, each
individual hair stood on end till his whole body resembled a
new-shorn wheat-field; and a snarl, like a rusty brake shoved hard
down~ escaped from between his teeth. Then he trotted heavily
forward, his head sinking low and lower as he came.

And Owd Bob, eager to take up the gage of battle, advanced, glad
and gallant, to meet him. Daintily he picked his way across the.
yard, head and tail erect, perfectly self-contained. Only the long
gray hair about his neck stood up like the ruff of a lady of the court
of Queen Elizabeth.

But the war-worn warriors were not to be allowed their will.

"Wullie, Wullie, wad ye!" cried the little man.

"Bob, lad, coom in!" called the other. Then~ he turned and looked
down at the man beside him, contempt flaunting in every feature.

"Well?" he said shortly.

M'Adam's hands were opening and shuting; his face was quite
white beneath the tan; but he spoke calmly.

"I'll tell ye the whole story, and it's the truth," he said slowly. "I
was up there the morn "--pointing to the window above--" and I see
Wullie crouchin' down alangside the Stony Bottom. (Ye ken he has
the run o' ma land o' neets, the same as your dog.) In a minnit I see
anither dog squatterin' alang on your side the Bottom. He creeps up
to the sheep on th' hillside, chases 'em, and doons one. The sun
was risen by then, and I see the dog clear as I see you noo. It was
that dog there--I swear it!" His voice rose as he spoke, and he
pointed an accusing finger at Owd Bob.

"Noo, Wullie! thinks I. And afore ye could clap yer hands, Wullie
was over the Bottom and on to him as he gorged--the bloody-
minded murderer! They fought and fought--I could hear the roarin'
a't where I stood. I watched till I could watch nae langer, and, all in
a sweat, I rin doon the stairs and oot. When I got there, there was
yer tyke makin' fu' split for Kenmuir, and Wullie comin' up the hill
to me. It's God's truth, I'm tellin' ye. Tak' him hame, James Moore,
and let his dinner be an ounce o' lead. 'Twill be the best day's work
iver ye done."

The little man must be lying--lying palpably. Yet he spoke with an
earnestness, a seeming belief in his own story, that might have
convinced one who knew him less well. But the Master only
looked down on him with a great scorn.

"It's Monday to-day." he said coldly. "I gie yo' till Saturday. If yo've
not done your duty by then--and well you know what 'tis--I shall
come do it for ye. Ony gate, I shall come and see. I'll remind ye
agin o' Thursday--yo'll be at the Manor dinner, I suppose. Noo I've
warned yo', and you know best whether I'm in earnest or no. Bob,
lad!"

He turned away, but turned again.

"I'm sorry for ye, but I've ma duty to do-- so've you. Till Saturday I
shall breathe no word to ony soul o' this business, so that if you see
good to put him oot o' the way wi'oot bother, no one need iver
know as hoo Adam M'Adam's Red Wull was the Black Killer."

He turned away for the second time. But the little man sprang after
him, and clutched him by the arm.

"Look ye here, James Moore!" he cried in thick, shaky, horrible
voice. "Ye're big, I'm sma'; ye're strang, I'm weak; ye've ivery one
to your back, I've niver a one; you tell your story, and they'll
believe ye--for you gae to church; I'll tell mine, and they'll think I
lie--for I dinna. But a word in your ear! If iver agin I catch ye on
ma land, by--! "--he swore a great oath--" I'll no spare ye. You ken
best if I'm in earnest or no." And his face was dreadful to see in its
hideous determinedness.

Chapter XXVII FOR THE DEFENCE

THAT night a vague story was whispered In the Sylvester Arms.
But Tammas, on being interrogated, pursed his lips and said: "Nay,
I'm sworn to say nowt." Which was the old man's way of putting
that he knew nowt.

On Thursday morning, James Moore and Andrew came down
arrayed in all their best. It was the day of the squire's annual dinner
to his tenants.

The two, however, were not allowed to start upon their way until
they had undergone a critical inspection by Maggie; for the girl
liked her mankind to do honor to Kenmuir on these occasions. So
she brushed up Andrew, tied his scarf, saw his boots and hands
were clean, and titivated him generally till she had converted the
ungainly hobbledehoy into a thoroughly "likely young mon."

And all the while she was thinking of that other boy for whom on
such gala days she had been wont to perform like offices. And her
father, marking the tears in her eyes, and mindful of the squire's
mysterious hint, said gently:

"Cheer up, lass. Happen I'll ha' news for you the night!"

The girl nodded, and smiled wanly.

"Happen so, dad," she said. But in her heart she doubted.

Nevertheless it was with a cheerful countenance that, a little later,
she stood in the door with wee Anne and Owd Bob and waved the
travellers Godspeed; while the golden-haired lassie, fiercely
gripping the old dog's tail with one hand and her sister with the
other, screamed them a wordless farewell.

The sun had reached its highest when the two wayfarers passed
through the gray portals of the Manor.

In the stately entrance hall, imposing with all the evidences of a
long and honorable line, were gathered now the many tenants
throughout the wide March Mere Estate. Weather-beaten,
rent-paying sons of the soil; most of them native-born, many of
them like James Moore, whose fathers had for generations owned
and farmed the land they now leased at the hands of the Sylvesters
there in the old hail they were assembled, a mighty host. And apart
from the others, standing as though in irony beneath the frown of
one of those steel-clad warriors who held the door, was little
M'Adam, puny always, paltry now, mocking his manhood.

The door at the far end of the hail opened, and the squire entered,
beaming on every one.

"Here you are--eh, eh! How are you all? Glad to see ye! Good-day,
James! Good-day, Saunderson! Good-day to you all! Bringin' a
friend with me--eh, eh!" and he stood aside to let by his agent,
Parson Leggy, and last of all, shy and blushing, a fair-haired young
giant.

"If it bain't David!" was the cry. "Eh, lad, we's fain to see yo'! And
yo'm lookin' stout, surely!" And they thronged about the boy,
shaking him by the hand, and asking him his story.

'Twas but a simple tale. After his flight on the eventful night he
had gone south, drover-- ing. He had written to Maggie, and been
surprised and hurt to receive no reply. In vain he had waited, and
too proud to write again, had remained ignorant of his father's
recovery,, neither caring nor daring to return. Then by mere
chance, he had met the squire at the York cattle-show; and that
kind man, who knew his story, had eased his fears and obtained
from him a promise to return as soon as the term of his
engagement had expired. And there he was.

The Dalesmen gathered round the boy, listening to his tale, and in
return telling him the home news, and chaffing him about Maggie.

Of all the people present, only one seemed unmoved, and that was
M'Adam. When first David had entered he had started forward, a
flush of color warming his thin cheeks; but no one had noticed his
emotion; and now, back again beneath his armor, he watched the
scene, a sour smile playing about his lips.

"I think the lad might ha' the grace to come and say he's sorry for
'temptin' to murder me. Hooiver "--with a characteristic shrug--" I
suppose I'm onraisonahie."

Then the gong rang out its summons, and the squire led the way
into the great dining-hail. At the one end of the long table, heavy
with all the solid delicacies of such a feast, he took his seat with
the Master of Kenmuir upon his right. At the other end was Parson
Leggy. While down the sides the stalwart Dalesmen were arrayed,
with M'Adam a little lost figure in the centre.

At first they talked but little, awed like chil.. dren: knives plied,
glasses tinkled, the carvers had all their work, only the tongues
were at rest. But the squire's ringing laugh and the parson's cheery
tones soon put them at their ease; and a babel of voices rose and
waxed.

Of them all, only M'Adam sat silent. He talked to no man, and you
may be sure no one talked to him. His hand crept of tener to his
glass than plate, till the sallow face began to flush, and the dim
eyes to grow unnaturally bright.

Toward the end of the meal there was loud tapping on the table,
calls for silence, and men pushed back their chairs. The squire was
on his feet to make his annual speech.

He started by telling them how glad he was to see them there. He
made an allusion to Owd Bob and the Shepherds' Trophy which
was heartily applauded. He touched on the Black Killer, and said
he had a remedy to propose: that Th' Owd Un should he set upon
the criminal's track--a suggestion which was received with
enthusiasm, while M'Adam's cackling laugh could be heard high
above the rest.

From that he dwelt upon the existing condition of agriculture, the
depression in which he attributed to the late Radical Government.
He said that now with the Conservatives in office, and a ministry
composed of "honorable men and gentlemen," he felt convinced
that things would brighten. The Radicals' one ambition was to set
class against class, landlord against tenant. Well, during the last
five hundred years, the Sylvesters had rarely been--he was sorry to
have to confess it--good men (laughter and dissent); but he never
yet heard of the Sylvester--though he shouldn't say it--~-who was a
bad landlord (loud applause).

This was a free country, and any tenant of his who was not content
(a voice, "'Oo says we bain't? ")--" thank you, thank you! "--well,
there was room for him outside. (Cheers.)

He thanked God from the bottom of his heart

that, during the forty years he had been responsible for the March
Mere Estate, there had never been any friction between him and
his people (cheers), and he didn't think there ever would be. (Loud
cheers.)

"Thank you, thank you!" And his motto was, "Shun a Radical as
you do the devil!"-- and he was very glad to see them all there--
very glad; and he wished to give them a toast, "The Queen! God
bless her!" and--wait a minute!--with her Majesty's name to couple
--he was sure that gracious lady would wish it--that of "Owd Bob o'
Kenmuir!" Then he sat down abruptly amid thundering applause.

The toasts duly honoured, James Moore, by prescriptive right as
Master of Kenmuir, rose to answer.

He began by saying that he spoke "as representing all the tenants,
"--but he was interrupted.

"Na," came a shrill voice from half-way down the table. "Yell
except me, James Moore. I'd as lief be represented by Judas!"

There were cries of "Hold ye gab, little mon!" and the squire's
voice, "That'll do, Mr. M'Adam!"

The little man restrained his tongue, but his eyes gleamed like a
ferret's; and the Master continued his speech.

He spoke briefly and to the point, in short phrases. And all the
while M'Adam kept up a low-voiced, running commentary. At
length he could control himself no longer. Half rising from his
chair, he leant forward with hot face and burning eyes, and cried:
"Sit doon, James Moore! Hoo daur ye stan' there like an honest
man, ye whitewashed sepulchre? Sit doon, I say, or'
'--threateningly--" wad ye hae me come to ye?"

At that the Dalesmen laughed uproariously, and even the Master's
grim face relaxed. But the squire's voice rang out sharp and stern.

"Keep silence and sit down, Mr. M'Adam! D'you hear me, sir? If I
have to speak to you again it will be to order you to leave the
room."

The little man obeyed, sullen and vengeful, like a beaten cat.

The Master concluded his speech by calling on all present to give
three cheers for the squire, her ladyship, and the young ladies.

The call was responded to enthusiastically, every man standing.
Just as the noise was at its zenith, Lady Eleanour herself, with her
two fair daughters, glided into the gallery at the end of the hall;
whereat the cheering became deafening.

Slowly the clamor subsided. One by one the tenants sat down. At
length there was left standing only one solitary figure-- M 'Adam.

His face was set, and he gripped the chair in front of him with thin,
nervous hands.

"Mr. Sylvester," he began in low yet clear voice, "ye said this is a
free country and we're a' free men. And that hem' so, I'll tak' the
liberty, wi' yer permission, to say a word. It's maybe the last time
I'll be wi' ye, so I hope ye'll listen to me."

The Dalesmen looked surprised, and the squire uneasy.
Nevertheless he nodded assent.

The little man straightened himself. His face was tense as though
strung up to a high resolve. All the passion had fled from it, all the
bitterness was gone; and left behind was a strange, enobling
earnestness. Standing there in the silence of that great hail, with
every eye upon him, he looked like some prisoner at the bar about
to plead for his life.

"Gentlemen," he began, "I've bin amang ye noo a score years, and I
can truly say there's not a man in this room I can ca' 'Friend.' " He
looked along the ranks of upturned faces. "Ay, David, I see ye, and
you, Mr. Hornbut, and you, Mr. Sylvester--ilka one o' you, and not
one as'd back me like a comrade gin a trouble came upon me."
There was no rebuke in the grave little voice--it merely stated a
hard fact.

"There's I doot no one amang ye but has some one--friend or
blood--wham he can turn to when things are sair wi' him. I've no
one.

'I bear alane my lade o' care'--

alane wi' Wullie, who stands to me, blaw or snaw, rain or shine.
And whiles I'm feared he'll be took from me." He spoke this last
half to himself, a grieved, puzzled expression on his face, as
though lately he had dreamed some ill dream.

"Forbye Wuilie, I've no friend on God's earth. And, mind ye, a bad
man aften mak's a good friend--but ye've never given me the
chance. It's a sair thing that, gentlemen, to ha' to fight the battle o'
life alane: no one to pat ye on th' back, no one to say 'Weel done.' It
hardly gies a man a chance. For gin he does try and yet fails, men
never mind the tryin', they only mark the failin'.

"I dinna blame ye. There'., somethin' bred in me, it se ms, as sets
ivery one agin me. It's the same wi' Wullie and the tykes--they're
doon on him same as men are on me. I suppose we was made so.
Sin' I was a lad it's aye bin the same. From school days I've had
ivery one agin me.

"In ma life I've had three fiends. Ma mither--and she went; then ma
wife "--he gave a great swallow--" and she's awa'; and I may say
they're the only two human hem's as ha' lived on God's earth in ma
time that iver tried to bear wi' me; -- and Wullie. A man's mither--a
man's wife-a man's dog! it's aften a' he has in this wand; and the
more he prizes them the more like they are to be took from him."
The little earnest voice shook, and the dim eyes puckered and
filled.

"Sin' I've bin amang ye-twenty-odd years --can any man here mind
speakin' any word that wasna ill to me?" He paused; there was no
reply.

"I'll tell ye. All the time I've lived here I've had one kindly word
spoke to me, and that a fortnight gone, and not by a man then--by
her ladyship, God bless her!" He glanced up into the gallery.
There was no one visible there; but a curtain at one end shook as
though it were sobbing.

"Weel, I'm thinkin' we'll be gaein' in a wee while noo, Wullie and
me, alane and thegither, as we've aye done. And it's time we went.
Ye've had enough o' us, and it's no for me to blame ye. And when
I'm gone what'll ye say o' me? 'He was a drunkard.' I am. 'He was a
sinner.' I am. 'He was ilka thing he shouldna be.' I am. 'We're glad
he's gone.' That's what ye'il say o' me. And it's but ma deserts."

The gentle, condemning voice ceased, and began again.

"That's what I am. Gin things had been differ', aiblins I'd ha' bin
differ'. D'ye ken Robbie Burns? That's a man I've read, and ead,
and read. D'ye ken why I love him as some o' you do yen Bibles?
Because there's a humanity about him. A weak man hissel', aye
slippin', slippin', slippin', and tryin' to haud up; sorrowin' ae
minute, sinnin' the next; doin' ill deeds and wishin' 'em
undone--just a plain human man, a sinner. And that's why I'm
thinkin he's tender for us as is like him. He understood. It's what he
wrote--after am o' his tumbles, I'm thinkin'--that I was goin' to tell
ye:

'Then gently scan yer brother man,
Still gentler sister woman,
Though they may gang a kennin' wrang,
To step aside is human'--

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