Bob, Son of Battle by Alfred Ollivant (classic literature list TXT) đ
- Author: Alfred Ollivant
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MâAdam looked round suspiciously.
âWhatâs that?â he asked sharply.
At the moment, however, Mrs. Moore put her head out of the kitchen window.
âCoom thy ways in, Mister MâAdam, and takâ a soop oâ tea,â she called hospitably.
âThank ye kindly, Mrs. Moore, I will,â he answered, politely for him. And this one good thing must be allowed of Adam MâAdam:
that, if there was only one woman of whom he was ever known to speak well, there was also only one, in the whole course of his life, against whom he ever insinuated evilâand that was years afterward, when men said his brain was sapped. Flouts and jeers he had for every man, but a woman, good or bad, was sacred to him. For the sex that had given him his mother and his wife he had that sentiment of tender reverence which, if a man still preserve, he cannot be altogether bad. As he turned into the house he looked back at Red Wull.
âAy, we may leave him,â he said. âThat is, gin yeâre no afraid, Mr. Thornton?â
Of what happened while the men were within doors, it is enough to tell two things. First, that Owd Bob was no bully. Second, this: In the code of sheepdog honor there is written a word in stark black letters; and opposite it another word, writ large in the color of blood. The first is âSheepmurderâ; the second, âDeath.â It is the one crime only to be wiped away in blood; and to accuse of the crime is to offer the one unpardonable insult. Every sheepdog knows it, and every shepherd.
That afternoon, as the men still talked, the quiet echoes of the farm rung with a furious animal cry, twice repeated: âShot for sheepmurderâââ Shot for sheepmurderâ; followed by a hollow stillness.
The two men finished their colloquy. The matter was concluded peacefully, mainly owing to the pacifying influence of Mrs. Moore. Together the three went out into the yard; Mrs. Moore seizing the opportunity to shyly speak on Davidâs behalf.
âlieâs such a good little lad, I do think,â she was saying.
âYe should ken, Mrs. Moore,â the little man answered, a thought bitterly; âye see enough of him.â
âYoâ mun be main proud of un, mester,â the woman continued, heedless of the sneer: âanâ âim growinâ such a gradely lad.â
MâAdam shrugged his shoulders.
âI barely ken the lad,â he said. âBy sight I know him, of course, but barely to speak to. Heâs but seldom at hame.â
âAnâ hoo proud his motherâd be if she could see him,â the woman continued, well aware of his one tender place. âEh, but she was fond oâ him, so she was.â
An angry flush stole over the little manâs face. Well he understood the implied rebuke; and it hurt him like a knife.
âAy, ay, Mrs. Moore,â he began. Then breaking off, and looking about himâ âWhereâs ma Wullie?â he cried excitedly. âJames Moore!â whipping round on the Master, âma Wullieâs goneâgone, I say!â
Elizabeth Moore turned away indignantly. âI do declarâ he takâs more fash after yon little yaller beastie than iver he does after his own flesh,â she muttered.
âWullie, ma we doggie! Wullie, where are ye? James Moore, heâs goneâma Wullieâs gone!â cried the little man, running about the yard, searching everywhere.
âCannot âaâ gotten far,â said the Master, reassuringly, looking about him.
âNiver no tellinâ,â said Samâl, appearing on the scene, pig-bucket in hand. âI inisdoot yoâll iver see your dog agin, mister.â He turned sorrowfully to MâAdam.
That little man, all dishevelled, and with the perspiration standing on his face, came hurrying out of the cow-shed and danced up to the Master.
âItâs robbed I amârobbed, I tell ye!â he cried recklessly. âMa wee Wullâs bin stolen while I was ben your hoose, James Moore!â
âYoâ munna say that, ma mon. No robbinâ at Kenmuir,â the Master answered sternly.
âThen where is he? Itâs for you to say.â
âIâve ma own idee, I âaye,â Samâl announced opportunely, pig-bucket uplifted.
MâAdam turned on him.
âWhat, man? What is it?â
âI misdoot yoâll iver see your dog agin, mister,â Samâl repeated, as if he was supplying the key to the mystery.
âNoo, Samâl, if yoâ know owt tell it, âordered his master.
Samâl grunted sulkily.
âWheerâs oor Bob, then?â he asked.
At that MâAdam turned on the Master.
âTis that, nae doot. Itâs yer gray dog, James Moore, yerâdog. I might haâ kent it, ââand he loosed off a volley of foul words.
âSweerinâ will no find him,â said the Master coldly. âNoo, Samâl.â
The big man shifted his feet, and looked mournfully at MâAdam.
âTwas âappen âaif an hour agone, when I sees oor Bob goinâ oot oâ yard wiâ little yaller tyke in his mouth. In a minnit I looks aginâ and theer! little yaller âUn was gone, and oor Bob a-sittinâ a-lickinâ his chops. Gone for-iver, I do reckân. Ah, yoâ may well take on, Tammas Thornton!â For the old man was rolling about the yard, bent double with merriment.
MâAdam turned on the Master with the resignation of despair.
âMan, Moore,â he cried piteously, âitâs yer gray dog has murdered ma wee Wull! Ye have it from yer am man.â
âNonsense,â said the Master encouragingly. â âTis but yon girt oof.â
Samâl tossed his head and snorted.
âCoom, then, and iâll show yoâ,â he said, and led the way out of the yard. And there below them on the slope to the stream, sitting like Justice at the Courts of Law, was Owd Bob.
Straightway Samâl whose humor was something of the calibre of old Rossâs, the sexton, burst into horse-merriment. âWhyâs he sit-tinâ so still, think âee? Ho! Ho! See un lickinâ his chopsâha! ha! ââand he roared afresh. While from afar you could hear the distant rumbling of âEnry and oor Job.
At the sight, MâAdam burst into a storm of passionate invective, and would have rushed on the dog had not James Moore forcibly restrained him.
âBob, lad,â called the Master, âcoom here!â But even as he spoke, the gray dog cocked his ears, listened a moment, and then shot down the slope. At the same moment Tammas hallooed: âTheer he be! yonâs yaller un coominâ oot oâ drain! La, Samâl!â And there, indeed, on the slope below them, a little angry, smutty-faced figure was crawling out of a rabbit-burrow.
âYe murderinâ devil, wad ye duar touch ma Wullie?â yelled MâAdam, and, breaking away, pursued hotly down the hill; for the gray dog had picked up the puppy, like a lancer a tent-peg, and was sweeping on, his captive in his mouth, toward the stream.
Behind, hurried James Moore and Samâl, wondering what the issue of the comedy would be. After them toddled old Tammas, chuckling. While over the yard-wall was now a little cluster of heads: âEnry, oor Job, Maggie and David, and Viâlet Thornton, the dairy-maid.
Straight on to the plank-bridge galloped Owd Bob. In the middle he halted, leant over, and dropped his prisoner; who fell with a cool plop into the running water beneath.
Another moment and MâAdam had reached the bank of the stream. In he plunged, splashing and cursing, and seized the struggling puppy; then waded back, the waters surging about his waist, and Red Wull, limp as a wet rag, in his hand. The little manâs hair was dripping, for his cap was gone; his clothes clung to him, exposing the miserableness of his figure; and his eyes blazed like hot ashes in his wet face.
He sprang on to the bank, and, beside himself with passion, rushed at Owd Bob.
âCurse ye for aââ
âStanâ back, or yoâll have him at your throat!â shouted the Master, thundering up. âStanâ back, I say, yoâ fule!â And, as the little man still came madly on, he reached forth his hand and hurled him back; at the same moment, bending, he buried the other hand deep in Owd Bobâs shaggy neck. It was but just in time; for if ever the fierce desire of battle gleamed in gray eyes, it did in the young dogâs as MâAdam came down on him.
The little man staggered, tottered, and fell heavily. At the shock, the blood gushed from his nose, and, mixing with the water on his face, ran down in vague red streams, dripping off his chin; while Red Wull, jerked from his grasp, was thrown afar, and lay motionless.
âCurse ye!â MâAdam screamed, his face dead-white save for the running red about his jaw. âCurse ye for a cowardly Englishman!â and, struggling to his feet, he made at the Master.
But Samâl interposed his great bulk between the two.
âEasy, little mon,â he said leisurely, regarding the small fury before him with mournful interest. âEli, but thee do be a little spit-cat, surely!â
James Moore stood, breathing deep, his hand still buried in Owd Bobâs coat.
âIf yoâd touched him,â he explained, âI conidna haâ stopped him. Heâd haâ mauled yoâ afore iver I could haâ had him off. Theyâre bad to hold, the Gray Dogs, when theyâre roosed.â
âAy, ma word, that they are!â corroborated Tammas, speaking from the experience of sixty years. âOnce on, yoâ canna get âem off.â
The little man turned away.
âYeâre all agin me,â he said, and his voice shook. A pitiful figure he made, standing there with the water dripping from him. A red stream was running slowly from his chin; his head was bare, and face working.
James Moore stood eyeing him with some pity and some contempt. Behind was Tammas, enjoying the scene. While Samâl regarded them all with an impassive melancholy.
MâAdam turned and bent over Red Wull, who still lay like a dead thing. As his master handled him, the button-tail quivered feebly; he opened his eyes, looked about him, snarled faintly, and glared with devilish hate at the gray dog and the group with him.
The little man picked him up, stroking him tenderly. Then he turned away and on to the bridge. Half-way across he stopped. It rattled feverishly beneath him, for he still trembled like a palsied man.
âMan, Moore!â he called, striving to quell the agitation in his voiceââ I wad shoot yon dog.â
Across the bridge he turned again. âMan, Moore!â he called and paused. Yeâll not forget this day.â And with that the blood flared up a dull crimson into his white face.
Chapter V. A MANâS SON
THE storm, long threatened, having once burst, MâAdam allowed loose rein to his bitter animosity against James Moore.
The two often met. For the little man frequently returned home from the village by the footpath across Kenmuir. It was out of his way, but he preferred it in order to annoy his enemy and keep a watch upon his doings.
He haunted Kenmuir like its evil genius. His sallow face was perpetually turning up at inopportune moments. When Kenmuir Queen, the prize short-horn heifer, calved unexpectedly and unattended in the dip by the lane, Tammas and the Master, summoned hurriedly by Owd Bob, came running up to find the little man leaning against the stile, and shaking with silent merriment. Again, poor old Staggy, daring still in his dotage, took a fall while scrambling on the steep banks of the Stony Bottom. There he lay for hours, unnoticed and kicking, until James Moore and Owd Bob came upon him at length, nearly exhausted. But MâAdam was before them. Standing on the far bank with Red Wull by his side, he called across the gulf with apparent concern: âHeâs bin so sinâ yesternight.â Often James Moore, with all his great strength of character, could barely control himself.
There were two attempts to patch up the feud. Jim Mason, who went about the world seeking to do good, tried in his shy way to set
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