Bob, Son of Battle by Alfred Ollivant (classic literature list TXT) đ
- Author: Alfred Ollivant
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Straightway there was silence; tongues ceased to wag, tankards to clink. Every man and every dog was quietly gathering about those two central figures. Not one of them all but had his score to wipe off against the Tailless Tyke; not one of them but was burning to join in, the battle once begun. And the two gladiators stood looking past one another, muzzle to muzzle, each with a tiny flash of teeth glinting between his lips.
But the fight was not to be; for the twentieth time the Master intervened.
âBob, lad, coom in!â he called, and, bending, grasped his favorite by the neck.
MâAdam laughed softly.
âWullie, Wullie, to me!â he cried. âThe look oâ youâs enough for that gentleman.â
âIf they get fightinâ itâll no be Bob here Iâll hit, I warn yoâ, MâAdam,â said the Master grimly.
âGin ye sac muckle as touched Wullie dâye ken what Iâd do, James Moore?â asked the little man very smoothly.
âYesâsweer,â the other replied, and strode out of the room amid a roar of derisive laughter at MâAdamâs expense.
Owd Bob had now attained wellnigh the perfection of his art. Parson Leggy declared roundly that his like had not been seen since the days of Rex son of Rally. Among the Dalesmen he was a heroic favorite, his prowess and gentle ways winning him friends on every hand. But the point that told most heavily for him was that in all things he was the very antithesis of Red Wull.
Barely a man in the countryside but owed that ferocious savage a grudge; not a man of them all who dared pay it. Once Long Kirby, full of beer and valor, tried to settle his account. Coming on MâAdam and Red Wull as he was driving into Grammochtown, he lent over and with his thong dealt the dog a terrible sword-like slash that raised an angry ridge of red from hip to shoulder; and was twenty yards down the road before the little manâs shrill curse reached his ear, drowned in a hideous bellow.
He stood up and lashed the colt, who, quick on his legs for a young un, soon settled to his gallop. But, glancing over his shoulder, he saw a hounding form behind, catching him as though he were walking. His face turned sickly white; he screamed; he flogged; he looked back. Right beneath the tail-board was the red devil in the dust; while racing a furlong behind on the turnpike road was the mad figure of MâAdam.
The smith struck back and flogged forward. It was of no avail. With a tiger-like bound the murderous brute leapt on the flying trap. At the shock of the great body the colt was thrown violently on his side; Kirby was tossed over the hedge; and Red Wull pinned beneath the debris.
MâAdam had time to rush up and save a tragedy.
âIâve a mind to knife ye, Kirby,â he panted, as he bandaged the smithâs broken head.
After that you may be sure the Dalesmen preferred to swallow insults rather than to risk their lives; and their impotence only served to fan their hatred to white heat.
The working methods of the antagonists were as contrasted as their appearances. In a word, the one compelled where the other coaxed.
His enemies said the Tailless Tyke was rough; not even Tammas denied he was ready. His brain was as big as his body, and he used them both to some purpose. âAs quick as a cat, with the heart of a lion and the temper of Nickâs self,â was Parson Leggyâs description.
What determination could effect, that could Red Wall; but achievement by inactionâsupremest of all strategiesâwas not for him. In matters of the subtlest handling, where to act anything except indifference was to lose, with sheep restless, fearful forebodings hymned to them by the wind, panic hovering unseen above them, when an ill-considered movement spelt catastropheâthen was Owd Bob oâ Kenmuir incomparable.
Men still tell how, when the squireâs new thrashing-machine ran amuck in Grammochtown, and for some minutes the market square was a turbulent sea of blaspheming men, yelping dogs, and stampeding sheep, only one flock stood calm as a mill-pond by the bull-ring, watching the riot with almost indifference. And in front, sitting between them and the storm, was a quiet gray dog, his mouth stretched in a capacious yawn: to yawn was to win, and he won.
When the worst of the uproar was over, many a glance of triumph was shot first at that one still pack, and then at MâAdam, as he waded through the disorder of huddling sheep.
âAnd wheerâs your Wullie noo?â asked Tapper scornfully.
âWeel,â the little man answered with a quiet smile, âat this minute heâs killinâ your Rasper doon by the pump.â Which was indeed the case; for big blue Rasper had interfered with the great dog in the performance of his duty, and suffered accordingly.
Spring passed into summer; and the excitement as to the event of the approaching Trials, when at length the rivals would be pitted against one another, reached such a height as old Jonas Maddox, the octogenarian, could hardly recall.
Down in the Sylvester Arms there was almost nightly a conflict between MâAdam and Tammas Thornton, spokesman of the Dales men. Many a long-drawn bout of words had the two anent the respective merits and Cup chances of red and gray. In these duels Tammas was usually worsted. His temper would get the better of his discretion; and the cynical debater would be lost in the hot-tongued partisan.
During these encounters the others would, as a rule, maintain a rigid silence. Only when their champion was being beaten, and it was time for strength of voice to vanquish strength of argument, they joined in right lustily and roared the little man down, for all the world like the gentlemen who rule the Empire at Westminster.
Tammas was an easy subject for MâAdam to draw, but David was an easier. Insults directed at himself the boy bore with a stolidity born of long use. But a poisonous dart shot against his friends at Kenmuir never failed to achieve its object. And the little man evinced an amazing talent for the concoction of deft lies respecting James Moore.
âIâm hearinâ,â said he, one evening, sitting in the kitchen, sucking his twig; âIâm hearinâ James Moore is gaeinâ to git married agin.â
âYoâre hearinâ liesâor mair-like tellinâ âem,â David answered shortly. For he treated his father now with contemptuous indifference.
âSeven months sinâ his wife died,â the little man continued meditatively. âWeel, Iâm onây âstonished heâs waited sae lang. Am buried, anither come onâthatâs James Moore.â
David burst angrily out of the room.
âGaeinâ to ask him if itâs true?â called his father after him. âGude luck to yeâand him.â
David had now a new interest at Kenmuir. In Maggie he found an endless source of study. On the death of her mother the girl had taken up the reins of government at Kenmuir; and gallantly she played her part, whether in tenderly mothering the baby, wee Anne, or in the sterner matters of household work. She did her duty, young though she was, with a surprising, old-fashioned womanliness that won many a smile of approval from her father, and caused Davidâs eyes to open with astonishment.
And he soon discovered that Maggie, mistress of Kenmuir, was another person from his erstwhile playfellow and servant.
The happy days when might ruled right were gone, never to be recalled. David often regretted them, especially when in a conflict of tongues, Maggie, with her quick answers and teasing eyes, was driving him sulky and vanquished from the field. The two were perpetually squabbling now. In the good old days, he remembered bitterly, squabbles between them were unknown. He had never permitted them; any attempt at independent thought or action was as sternly quelled as in the Middle Ages. She must follow where he led onââMa word!â
Now she was mistress where he had been master; hers was to command, his to obey. In consequence they were perpetually at war. And yet he would sit for hours in the kitchen and watch her, as she went about her business, with solemn, interested eyes, half of admiration, half of amusement. In the end Maggie always turned on him with a little laugh touched with irritation.
âHanât yoâ got nothinâ betterân that to do, nor lookinâ at me?â she asked one Saturday about a month before Cup Day.
âNo, I hanât,â the pert fellow rejoined.
âThen I wish yoâ had. It makâs me fair jumpety yoâ watchinâ me so like ony cat a mouse.â
âNiver yoâ fash yoâselâ account oâ me, ma wench,â he answered calmly.
âYoâ wench, indeed!â she cried, tossing her head.
âAy, or will be,â he muttered.
âWhatâs that?â she cried, springing round, a flush of color on her face.
âNowt, my dear. Yoâll know so soon as I want yoâ to, yoâ may be sure, and no sooner.â
The girl resumed her baking, half angry, half suspicious.
âI dunnoâ what yoâ mean, Mr. MâAdam,â she said.
âDonât yoâ, Mrs. MâAâ
The rest was lost in the crash of a falling plate; whereat David laughed quietly, and asked if he should help pick up the bits.
On the same evening at the Sylvester Arms an announcement was made that knocked the breath out of its hearers.
In the debate that night on the fast-approaching Dale Trials and the relative abilities of red and gray, MâAdam on the one side, and Tammas, backed by Long Kirby and the rest, on the other, had cudgelled each other with more than usual vigor. The controversy rose to fever-heat; abuse succeeded argument; and the little man again and again was hooted into silence.
âItâs easy laffinâ,â he cried at last, âbut yeâll laff tâither side oâ yer ugly faces on Cup Day.â
âWill us, indeed? lJsâll see,â came the derisive chorus.
âWeâll whip ye till yeâre deaf, dumb, and blind, Wullie and I.â
âYoâll not!â
âWe will!â
The voices were rising like the east wind in March.
âYoâll not, and for a very good reason too,â asseverated Tammas loudly.
âGie us yer reason, ye muckle liar,â cried the little man, turning on him.
âBecosââ began Jim Mason and stopped to rub his nose.
âYoâ âold yoâ noise, Jim,â recommended Rob Saunderson.
âBecosââ it was Tammas this time who paused.
âGit on wiâ it, ye stammerinâ stirk!â cried MâAdam. âWhy?â
âBecosâOwd Bobâll not rin.â
Tammas sat back in his chair.
âWhat!â screamed the little man, thrusting forward.
âWhatâs that!â yelled Long Kirby, leaping to his feet.
âMon, say it agin!â shouted Rob.
âWhatâs owd addled egg tellinâ?â cried Liz Burton.
âDang his âead for him!â shouts Tupper. âFill his eye!â says Ned Hoppin.
They jostled round the old manâs chair:
MâAdam in front; Jem Burton and Long Kirby leaning over his shoulder; Liz behind her father; Saunderson and Tupper tackling him on either side; while the rest peered and elbowed in the rear.
The announcement had fallen like a thunderbolt among them.
Tammas looked slowly up at the little mob of eager faces above him. Pride at the sensation caused by his news struggled in his countenance with genuine sorrow for the matter of it.
âAy, yoâ may well âearken all on yoâ. Tis enough to makâ the deadies listen. I says agin: Weâsâll no rin oor Bob fotâ Cup. And yoâ may guess why. Bainât every mon, Mr. MâAdam, asâd pit aside his chanst oâ the Cup, and that âmaist a gift for himââMâAdamâs
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