Bob, Son of Battle by Alfred Ollivant (classic literature list TXT) đ
- Author: Alfred Ollivant
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âYou mind yer letters and yer wires, Mr. Poacher-Postman. Ay, I saw âem baith: thâ am doon by the Haughs, tâither in the Bottom. And thereâs Wullie, the humorsome chiel, havinâ a rare game wiâ Betsy.â There, indeed, lay the faithful Betsy, suppliant on her back, paws up, throat exposed, while Red Wull, now a great-grown puppy, stood over her, his habitually evil expression intensified into a fiendish grin, as with wrinkled muzzle and savage wheeze he waited for a movement as a pretext to pin: âWullie, let the leddy beâyeâve had yer dinner.â
Parson Leggy was the other would-be mediator; for he hated to see the two principal parishioners of his tiny cure at enmity. First he tackled James Moore on the subject; but that laconic person cut him short with, âIâve nowt agin the little mon,â and would say no more. And, indeed, the quarrel was none of his making.
Of the parsonâs interview with MâAdam, it is .enough to say here that, in the end, the angry old minister would of a surety have assaulted his mocking adversary had not Cyril Gilbraith forcibly withheld him.
And after that the vendetta must take its course unchecked.
David was now the only link between the two farms. Despite his fatherâs angry commands, the boy clung to his intimacy with the Moores with a doggedness that no thrashing could overcome. Not a minute of the day when out of school, holidays and Sundays included, but was passed at Kenmuir. it was not till late at night that he would sneak back to the Grange, and creep quietly up to his tiny bare room in the roofânot supperless, indeed, motherly Mrs. Moore had seen to that. And there he would lie awake and listen with a fierce contempt as his father, hours later, lurched into the kitchen below, lilting liquorishly:
âWe are na Lou, weâre nae that Lou, But just a drappie in our eâe; The cock may craw, the day may dawâ, And ay weâll taste the barley bree!â
And in the morning the boy would slip quietly out of the house while his father still slept; only Red Wull would thrust out his savage head as the lad passed, and snarl hungrily.
Sometimes father and son would go thus for weeks without sight of one another. And that was Davidâs aimâto escape attention. It was only his cunning at this game of evasion that saved him a thrashing.
The little man seemed devoid of all natural affection for his son. He lavished the whole fondness of which his small nature appeared capable on the Tailless Tyke, for so the Dalesmen called Red Wull. And the dog he treated with a careful tenderness that made David smile bitterly.
The little man and his dog were as alike morally as physically they were contrasted. Each owed a grudge against the world and was determined to pay it. Each was an Ishmael among his kind.
You saw them thus, standing apart, leper-like, in the turmoil of life; and it came quite as a revelation to happen upon them in some quiet spot of nights, playing together, each wrapped in the game, innocent, tender, forgetful of the hostile world.
The two were never separated except only when MâAdam came home by the path across Kenmuir. After that first misadventure he never allowed his friend to accompany him on the journey through the enemyâs country; for well he knew that sheepdogs have long memories.
To the stile in the lane, then, Red Wull would follow him. There he would stand, his great head poked through the bars, watching his master out of sight; and then would turn and trot, self-reliant and defiant, sturdy and surly, down the very centre of the road through the villageâno playing, no enticing away, and woe to that man or dog who tried to stay him in his course! And so on, past Mother Rossâs shop, past the Sylvester Arms, to the right by Kirbyâs smithy, over the Wastrel by the Haughs, to await his master at the edge of the Stony Bottom.
The little man, when thus crossing Kenmuir, often met Owd Bob, who had the free run of the farm. On these occasions he passed discreetly by; for, though he was no coward, yet it is bad, single-handed, to attack a Gray Dog of Kenmuir; while the dog trotted soberly on his way, only a steely glint in the big gray eyes betraying his knowledge of the presence of his foe. As surely, however, as the little man, in his desire to spy out the nakedness of the land, strayed off the public path, so surely a gray figure, seeming to spring from out the blue, would come fiercely, silently driving down on him; and he would turn and run for his life, amid the uproarious jeers of any of the farm-hands who were witness to the encounter.
On these occasions David vied with Tammas in facetiousness at his fatherâs expense.
âGood on yoâ, little un!â he roared from behind a wall, on one such occurence.
âBainât he a runner, neither?â yelled Tammas, not to be outdone. âSee un skip itâho! ho!â
âLook to his knees a-wamblinâ!â from the Jon, Iâd wear petticoats.â As he spoke, a swinging box on the ear nearly knocked the young reprobate down.
âDâyoâ think God gave you a dad for you to jeer at? Yâought to be ashamed oâ yoâself. Serve yoâ right if he does thrash yoâ when yoâ get home.â And David, turning round, found James Moore close behind him, his heavy eyebrows lowering over his eyes.
Luckily, MâAdam had not distinguished his ïżœOflâs voice among the others. But David Iearcd he had; for on the following morning the little man said to him:
âDavid, yeâll come hame immediately after school to-day.â
âWill I?â said David pertly.
âYe will.
âWhy?â
âBecause I tell ye to, ma ladâ; and that was all the reason he would give. Had he told the simple fact that he wanted help to drench a âhuskingâ ewe, things might have gone differently. As it was, David turned away defiantly down the hill.
The afternoon wore on. Schooltime was long over; still there was no David.
The little man waited at the door of the Grange, fuming, hopping from one leg to the other, talking to Red Wull, who lay at his feet, his head on his paws, like a tiger waiting for his prey.
At length he could restrain himself no longer; and started running down the bill, his heart burning with indignation.
âWait till we lay hands on ye, ma lad,â he muttered as he ran. âWeâll warm ye, weâll teach ye.â
At the edge of the Stony Bottom he, as always, left Red Wull. Crossing it himself, and rounding Langholm How, he espied James Moore, David, and Owd Bob walking away from him and in the direction of Kenmuir. The gray dog and David were playing together. wrestling, racing, and rolling. The boy had never a thought for his father.
The little man ran up behind them, unseen and unheard, his feet softly pattering on the grass. His hand had fallen on Davidâs shoulder before the boy had guessed his approach.
âDid I bid ye come hame after school, David?â he asked, concealing his heat beneath a suspicious suavity.
âMaybe. Did I say I would come?â
The pertness of tone and words, alike, fanned his fatherâs resentment into a blaze. In a burst of passion he lunged forward at the boy with his stick. But as he smote, a gray whirlwind struck him fair on the chest, and he fell like a snapped stake, and lay, half stunned, with a dark muzzle an inch from his throat.
âGit back, Bob!â shouted James Moore, hurrying up. âGit back, I tell yoâ!â He bent over the prostrate figure, propping it up anxiously. âAre yoâ hurt, MâAdam? Eh,
A stranger might well have mistaken the identity of the boyâs father. For he stood now, holding the Masterâs arm; while a few paces above them was the little man, pale but determined, the expression on his face betraying his consciousness of the irony of the situation.
âWill ye come hame wiâ me and have it noo, or stop wiâ him and wait till ye get it?â he asked the boy.
âMâAdam, Iâd like yoâ toââ
âNone oâ that, James Moore.âDavid, what dâye say?â
David looked up into his protectorâs face. âYoâd best go wiâ your feyther, lad,â said the Master at last, thickly. The boy hesitated, and clung tighter to the shielding arm; then he walked slowly over to his father.
A bitter smile spread over the little manâs face as he marked this new test ci? the boyâs obedience to the other.
âTo obey his frienâ he foregoes the pleasure oâ disobeyinâ his father,â he muttered. âNoble!â Then he turned homeward, and the boy followed in his footsteps.
James Moore and the gray dog stood looking after them.
âI know yoâll not pay off yer spite agin me on the ladâs head, MâAdam,â he called, almost appealingly.
âIâll do ma duty, thank ye, James Moore, wiâoot respect oâ persons,â the little man cried back, never turning.
Father and son walked away, one behind the other, like a man and his dog, and there was no word said between them. Across the Stony Bottom, Red Wull, scowling with bared teeth at David, joined them. Together the three went up the bill to the Grange.
In the kitchen MâAdam turned.
âNoo, Iâm gaeinâ to gie ye the granâest thrashinâ ye iver dreamed of. Takâ aff yer coat!â
The boy obeyed, and stood up in his thin shirt, his face white and set as a statueâs. Red Wull seated himself on his haunches close by, his ears pricked, licking his lips, all attention.
The little man suppled the great ash-plant in his hands and raised it. But the expression on the boyâs face arrested his arm.
âSay yeâre sorry and Iâll let yer a.ff easy.â
âIâll not.â
âOne mair chanceâyer last! Say yer âshamed oâ yerselfâ!â
âIâm not.â
The little man brandished his cruel, white weapon, and Red Wull shifted a little to obtain a better view.
âGit on wiâ it,â ordered David angrily.
The little man raised the stick again andâ threw it into the farthest corner of the room.
It fell with a rattle on the floor, and MâAdam turned away.
âYeâre the pitifulest son iver a man had,â he cried brokenly. âGin a manâs son dinna haud to him, wha can he expect to?âno one. Yeâre ondootiful, yeâre disrespectfuâ, yeâre maist ilka thing ye shouldna be; thereâs but ae thing I thocht ye were notâa coward. And as to that, yeâve no the pluck to sa)yeâre sorry when, God knows, ye might be. I canna thrash ye this day. But ye shall gae nae mair to school. I send ye there to learn. Yeâll not learnâyeâve learnt naethinâ except disobedience to me-ye shall stop at hame and work.â
His fatherâs rare emotion, his broken voice and working face, moved David as all the stripes and jeers had failed to do. His conscience smote him. For the first time in his life it dimly dawned on him that, perhaps, his father, too, had some ground for complaint; that, perhaps, he was not a good son.
He half turned.
âFeytherââ
âGit oot oâ ma sight!â MâAdam cried.
And the boy turned and went.
Chapter VI. A LICKING OR A LIE
THENCEFORWARD David buckled down to work at home, and in one point only father and son resembledâindustry. A drunkard MâAdam was, but a drone, no.
The boy worked at the Grange with tireless, indomitable energy; yet he could never satisfy his father.
The little man would stand, a sneer on his face and his thin lips contemptuously curled, and flout the ladâs
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