Bob, Son of Battle by Alfred Ollivant (classic literature list TXT) đ
- Author: Alfred Ollivant
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What else is he fit for? I tell yoâ oor Bobââ
âââOor Bobâ!â screamed the little man darting forward. â âOor Bobâ! Hark to him. Iâll âoorââ At him, Wullie! at him!â
But the Tailless Tyke needed no encouragement. With a harsh roar he sprang through the air, only to crash against the closing door!
The outer door banged, and in another second a mocking finger tapped on the windowpane.
âBetter luck to the two on yoâ next time! laughed a scornful voice; and David ran down the hill toward Kenmuir.
Chapter XII. HOW RED WULL HELD THE BRIDGE
FROM that hour the fire of MâAdamâs jealousy blazed into a mighty flame. The winnling of the Dale Cup had become a mania with him. He had won it once, and would again despite all the Moores, all the Gray Dogs, all the undutiful sons in existence; on that point he was resolved. The fact of his having tasted the joys of victory served to whet his desire. And now he felt he could never be happy till the Cup was his ownâwon outright.
At home David might barely enter the room There the trophy stood.
âIâll not haâ ye touch ma Cup, ye dirty fingered, ill-begotten wastrel. Wullie and me won itâyouâd naught to do wiâ it. Go you to James Moore and James Mooreâs dog.â
âAy, and shall I takâ Cup wiâ me? or will ye bide till itâs took from ye?â
So the two went on; and every day the tension approached nearer breaking-point.
In the Dale the little man met with no sympathy. The hearts of the Dalesmen were to a man with Owd Bob and his master.
Whereas once at the Sylvester Arms his shrill, ill tongue had been rarely still, now he maintained a sullen silence; Jem Burton, at least, had no cause of. complaint. Crouched away in a corner, with Red Wull beside him, the little man would sit watching and listening as the Dalesmen talked of Owd Bobâs doings, his staunchness, sagacity, and coming victory.
Sometimes he could restrain himself no longer. Then he would spring to his feet, and stand, a little swaying figure, and denounce them passionately in almost pathetic eloquence. These orations always concluded in set fashion.
âYeâre all agin us!â the little man would cry in quivering voice.
âWe are that,â Tammas would answer complacently.
âFair means or foul, yeâre content sae lang as Wullie and me are beat. I wonder ye dinna poison himâa little arsenic, and the wayâs clear for your Bob.â
âThe way is clear enough wiâoot that,â from Tammas caustically. Then a lengthy silence, only broken by that exceeding bitter cry:
âEh, Wullie, Wullie, theyâre all agin us!â
And always the rivalsâred and grayâwent about seeking their opportunity. But the Master, with his commanding presence and stern eyes, was ever ready for them. Toward the end, MâAdam, silent and sneering, would secretly urge on Red Wull to the attack; until, one day in Grammochtown, James Moore turned on him, his blue eyes glittering. âDâyoâ think, yoâ little fule,â he cried in that hard voice of his,âthat onst they got set we should iver git either of them off alive?â It seemed to strike the little man as a novel idea; for, from that moment, he was ever the first in his feverish endeavors to oppose his small form, buffer-like, between the would-be combatants.
Curse as MâAdam might, threaten as he niight, when the time came Owd Bob won.
The styles of the rivals were well contrasted: the patience, the insinuating eloquence, combined with the splendid dash, of the one; and the fierce, driving fury of the other.
The issue was never in doubt. It may have been that the temper of the Tailless Tyke gave in the time of trial; it may have been that his sheep were wild, as MâAdam declared; certainly not, as the little man alleged in choking voice, that they had been chosen and purposely set aside to ruin his chance. Certain it is that his tactics scared them hopelessly: ay)d he never had them in hand.
Act for Owd Bob, his dropping, his driving, his penning, aroused the loud-tongued admiration of crowd and competitors alike. He was patient yet persistent, quiet yet firm, and seemed to coax his charges in the right way in that inimitable manner of his own.
When, at length, the verdict was given, and it was known that, after an interval of half a century, the Shepherdsâ Trophy was won again by a Gray Dog of Kenmuir, there was such a scene as has been rarely witnessed on the slope behind the Dalesmanâs Daughter.
Great fists were slapped on mighty backs; great feet were stamped on the sun-dried banks of the Silver Lea; stalwart lungs were strained to their uttermost capacity; and roars of âMoore!â âOwd Bob oâ Kenmuir!â âThe Gray Dogs!â thundered up the hillside, and were flung, thundering, back.
Even James Moore was visibly moved as he worked his way through the cheering mob; and Owd Bob, trotting alongside him in quiet dignity, seemed to wave his silvery brush in acknowledgement.
Master Jacky Sylvester alternately turned cart-wheels and felled the Hon. Launcelot Bilks to the ground. Lady Eleanour, her cheeks flushed with pleasure, waved her parasol, and attempted to restrain her sonâs exuberance. Parson Leggy danced an unclerical jig, and shook hands with the squire till both those fine old gentlemen were purple in the face. Long Kirby selected a small man in the crowd, and bashed his hat down over his eyes. While Tammas, Rob Saunderson, Tupper, Hoppin, Londesley, and the rest joined hands and went raving round like so many giddy girls.
ous in the mad heat of his enthusiasm as David MâAdam. He stood in the Kenmuir wagon beside Maggie, a conspicuous figure above the crowd, as he roared in hoarse ecstasy:
âWeel done, oor Bob! Weel done, Mr. Moore! Yoâve knocked him! Knock him agin! Owd Bob oâ Kenmuir! Moore! Moore oâ Kenmuir! Hip! Hip!â until the noisy young giant attracted such attention in his boisterous delight that Maggie had to lay a hand upon his arm to restrain his violence.
Alone, on the far bank of the stream, stood the vanquished pair.
The little man was trembling slightly; his face was still hot from his exertions; and as he listened to the ovation accorded to his conqueror, there was a piteous set grin upon his face. In front stood the defeated dog, his lips wrinkling and hackles rising, as he, too, saw and heard and understood.
âItâs a granâ thing to haâ a dutiful son. Wullie,â the little man whispered, watching Davidâs waving figure. âHeâs happyâand so are they aâânot sae much that James Moore has won, as that you and I are beat.â
Then, breaking down for a moment:
âEh, Wullie, Wullie! theyâre all agin us. Itâs you and I alane, lad.â
Again, seeing the squire followed by Parson Leggy, Viscount Birdsaye, and others of the gentry, forcing their way through the press to shake hands with the victor, he continued:
âItâs good to be in wiâ the quality, Wullie. Niver makâ a friend of a man beneath ye in rank, nor an enemy of a man aboon ye: thatâs a soond principle, Wullie, if yeâd get on in honest England.â
He stood there, alone with his dog, watching the crowd on the far slope as it surged upward in the direction of the committee tent. Only when the black mass had packed itself in solid phalanges about that ring, inside which, just a year ago, he had stood in very different circumstances, and was at length still, a wintry smile played for a moment about his lips. He laughed a mirthless laugh.
âBide a wee, Wullie â he! he! Bide a wee.
âThe best-laid schemes oâ mice and men Gang aft agley.â
As he spoke, there came down to him, above the tumult, a faint cry of mingled surprise and anger. The cheering ceased abruptly. There was silence; then there burst on the stillness a hurricane of indignation.
The crowd surged forward, then turned. Every eye was directed across the stream. A hundred damning fingers pointed at the solitary figure there. There were hoarse yells of: âThere he b& Yonâs him! Whatâs he done wiâ it? Thief! Throttle him!â
The mob came lumbering down the slope like one man, thundering their imprecations on a thousand throats. They looked dangerous, and their wrath was stimulated by the knot of angry Dalesmen who led the van. There was more than one white face among the women at the top of the slope as they watched the crowd blundering blindly down the hill. There were more men than Parson Leggy, the squire, James Moore, and the local constables in the thick of it all, striving frantically with voice and gesture, ay, and stick too, to stem the advance.
It was useless; on the dark wave rolled, irresistible.
On the far bank stood the little man, motionless, awaiting them with a grin upon his face. And a little farther in front was the Tailless Tyke, his back and neck like a new-shorn wheat-field, as he rumbled a vast challenge.
âCome on, gentlemen!â the little man cried. âCome on! Iâll hide for ye, never fear. Yeâre a thousand to one and a dog. Itâs the odds ye like, Englishmen aâ.â
And the mob, with murder in its throat, accepted the invitation and came on.
At the moment, however, from the slope above, clear above the tramp of the mulitude, a great voice bellowed: âWay! Way! Way for Mr. Trotter!â The advancing host checked and opened out; and the secretary of the meeting bundled through.
He was a small, fat man, fussy at any time, and perpetually perspiring. Now his face was crimson with rage and running; he gesticulated wildly; vague words bubbled forth, as his short legs twinkled down the slope.
The crowd paused to admire. Some one shouted a witticism, and the crowd laughed. For the moment the situation was saved.
The fat secretary hurried on down the slope, unheeding of any insult but the one. He bounced over the plank-bridge: and as he came closer, MâAdam saw that in each hand brandished a brick.
âHoots, man! dinna throw!â he cried, making a feint as though to turn in sudden terror.
âWhatâs this? Whatâs this?â gasped the secretary, waving his arms.
âBricks, âtwad seem,â the other answered, staying his flight.
The secretary puffed up like a pudding in a hurry.
âWhereâs the Cup? Champion, Challenge, etc.,â he jerked out. âMind, sir, youâre responsible! wholly responsible! Dents, damages, delays! Whatâs it all mean, sir? Theseâthese monstrous creations ââhe brandished the bricks, and MâAdam started backâ âwrapped, as I live, in straw, sir, in the Cup case, sir! the Cup case! No Cup! Infamous! Disgraceful! Insult meâmeetingâcommitteeâ every one! Whatâs it mean, sir?â He paused to pant, his body filling and emptying like a bladder.
MâAdam approached him with one eye on the crowd, which was heaving forward again, threatening still, but sullen and silent.
âI pit âem there,â he whispered; and drew back to watch the effect of his disclosure.
The secretary gasped.
âYouâyou not only do thisâamazing thingâthese monstrositiesââ he hurled the bricks furiously on the unoff ending groundââ but you dare to tell me so!â
The little man smiled.
ââDo wrang and conceal it, do right and confess it,â thatâs Englishmenâs motto, and mine, as a rule; but this time I had ma reasons.â
âReasons, sir! No reasons can justify such an extraordinary breach of all theâthe decencies. Reasons? the reasons of a maniac. Not to say more, sir. Fraudulent detentionâfraudulent, I say, sir! What were your precious reasons?â
The mob with Tammas and Long Kirby at their head had now welinigh reached the plank-bridge. They still looked dangerous, and there were isolated cries of:
âDuck him!â
âChuck him in!â
âAnâ the dog!â
âWiâ one oâ they
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