Bob, Son of Battle by Alfred Ollivant (crime books to read TXT) 📕

tongue was in his cheek—” and it a certainty,” the old man continued warmly, “oot o’ respect for his wife’s memory.”

The news was received in utter silence. The shock of the surprise, coupled with the bitterness of the disappointment, froze the slow tongues of his listeners.

Only one small voice broke the stillness.

“Oh, the feelin’ man! He should git a reduction o’ rent for sic a display o’ proper speerit. I’ll mind Mr. Hornbut to let auld Sylvester ken o’t.”

Which he did, and would have got a thrashing for his pains had not Cyril Gilbraith thrown him out of the parsonage before the angry cleric could lay hands upon him.

Chapter X. RED WULL WINS

TAMMAS had but told the melancholy truth. Owd Bob was not to run for the cup. And this self-denying ordinance speaks more for James Moore s love of his lost wife than many a lordly cenotaph.

To the people of the Daleland, from the Black Water to the market-cross in Grammochtown, the news came with the shock of a sudden blow. They had set their hearts on the Gray Dog s success; and had felt serenely confident of his victory. But the sting of the matter lay in this: that now the Tailless Tyke might well win.

M’Adam, on the other hand, was plunged into a fervor of delight at the news. For to win the Shepherds’ Trophy was the goal of his ambition. David was now less than nothing to the lonely little man, Red Wull everything to him. And to have that name handed down to posterity, gallantly holding its place among those of the most famous sheepdogs of all time, was his heart’s desire.

As Cup Day drew near, the little man, his fine-drawn temperament strung to the highest pitch of nervousness, was tossed on a sea of apprehension. His hopes and fears ebbed and flowed on the tide of the moment. His moods were as uncertain as the winds in March; and there was no dependence on his humor for a unit of time. At one minute he paced up and down the kitchen, his face already flushed with the glow of victory, chanting:

“Scots wha hae wi’ Wallace bled !”

At the next he was down at the table, his head buried in his hands, his whole figure shaking, as he cried in choking voice: “Eh, Wullie, Wullie, they’re all agin us.”

David found that life with his father now was life with an unamiable hornet. Careless as he affected to be of his father’s vagaries, he was tried almost to madness, and fled away at every moment to Kenmuir; for, as he told Maggie, “I’d sooner put up wi’ your h’airs and h’imperences, miss, than wi’ him, the wemon that he be!”

At length the great day came. Fears, hopes, doubts, dismays, all dispersed in the presence of the reality.

Cup Day is always a general holiday in the Daleland, and every soul crowds over to Silverdale. Shops were shut; special trains ran in to Grammochtown; and the road from the little town was dazed with char-a-bancs, brakes, wagonettes, carriages, carts, foot-passengers, wending toward the Dalesman’s Daughter.

And soon the paddock below that little inn was humming with the crowd of sportsmen and spectators come to see the battle for the Shepherd’s Trophy.

There, very noticeable with its red body and yellow wheels, was the great Kenmuir wagon. Many an eye was directed on the handsome young pair who stood in it, conspicuous and unconscious, above the crowd: Maggie, looking in her simple print frock as sweet and fresh as any mountain flower; while David’s fair face was all gloomy and his brows knit.

In front of the wagon was a black cluster of Dalesmen, discussing M’Adam’s chances. In the centre was Tammas holding forth. Had you passed close to the group you might have heard: “A man, d’yo say, Mr. Maddox? A h’ape, I call him”; or: “A dog? more like an ‘og, I tell yo’.” Round the old orator were Jonas, ‘Enry, and oor Job, Jem Burton, Rob Saunderson, Tupper, Jim Mason, Hoppin, and others; while on the outskirts stood Sam’l Todd prophesying rain and M’Adam’s victory. Close at hand Bessie Bolstock, who was reputed to have designs on David, was giggling spitefully at the pair in the Kenmuir wagon, and singing:

“Let a lad aloan, lass, Let a lad a-be.”

While her father, Teddy, dodged in and out among the crowd with tray and glasses: for Cup Day was the great day of the year for him.

Past the group of Dalesmen and on all sides was a mass of bobbing heads—Scots, Northerners, Yorkshiremen, Taffies. To right and left a long array of carriages and carts, ranging from the squire’s quiet landau and Viscount Birdsaye’s gorgeous barouche to Liz Burton’s three-legged moke-cart with little Mrs. Burton, the twins, young Jake (who should have walked), and Monkey (ditto) packed away inside. Beyond the Silver Lea -the gaunt Scaur raised its craggy peak, and the Pass, trending along its side, shone white in the sunshine.

At the back of the carriages were booths, cocoanut-shies, Aunt Sallies, shows, bookmakers’ stools, and all the panoply of such a meeting. Here Master Launcelot Bilks and Jacky Sylvester were fighting; Cyril Gilbraith was offering to take on the boxing man; Long Kirby was snapping up the odds against Red Wull; and Liz Burton and young Ned Hoppin were being photographed together, while Melia Ross in the background was pretending she didn’t care.

On the far bank of the stream was a little bevy of men and dogs, observed of all.

The Juvenile Stakes had been run and won; Londesley’s Lassie had carried off the Locals; and the fight for the Shepherds’ Trophy was about to begin.

“Yo’re not lookin’ at me noo,” whispered Maggie to the silent boy by her side.

“Nay; nor niver don’t wush to agin.” David answered roughly. His gaze was directed over the array of heads in front to where, beyond the Silver Lea, a group of shepherds and their dogs was clustered. While standing apart from the rest, in characteristic isolation, was the bent figure of his father, and beside him the Tailless Tyke.

“Doest’o not want yo’ feyther to win?” asked Maggie softly, following his gaze.

“I’m prayin’ he’ll be beat,” the boy answered moodily.

“Eh, Davie, hoo can ye?” cried the girl, shocked.

“It’s easy to say, ‘Eh, David,’ “he snapped. “But if yo’ lived along o’ them two “—he nodded toward the stream—” ‘appen yo’d understand a bit… . ‘Eh, David,’ indeed! I never did!”

“I know it, lad,” she said tenderly; and he was appeased.

“He’d give his right hand for his bless’d Wullie to win; I’d give me right arm to see him beat… . And oor Bob there all the while,—he nodded to the far left of the line, where stood James Moore and Owd Bob, with Parson Leggy and the Squire.

When at length Red Wull came out to run his course, he worked with the savage dash that always characterized him. His method was his own; but the work was admirably done.

“Keeps right on the back of his sheep,” said the parson, watching intently. “Strange thing they don’t break!” But they didn’t. There was no waiting, no coaxing; it was drive and devilry all through. He brought his sheep along at a terrific rate, never missing a turn, never faltering, never running out. And the crowd applauded, for the crowd loves a dashing display. While little M’Adam, hopping agilely about, his face ablaze with excitement, handled dog and sheep with a masterly precision that compelled the admiration even of his enemies.

“M’Adam wins!” roared a bookmaker. “Twelve to one agin the field!”

“He wins, dang him!” said David, low.

“Wull wins!” said the parson, shutting his lips.

“And deserves too!” said James Moore.

“Wull wins!” softly cried the crowd.

“We don’t!” said Sam’l gloomily.

And in the end Red Wull did Win; and there were none save Tammas, the bigot, and Long Kirby, who had lost a good deal of his wife’s money and a little of his own, to challenge the justice of the verdict.

The win had but a chilling reception. At first there was faint cheering; but it sounded like the echo of an echo, and soon died of inanition. To get up an ovation, there must be money at the back, or a few roaring fanatics to lead the dance. Here there was neither; ugly stories, disparaging remarks, on every hand. And the hundreds who did not know took their tone, as always, from those who said they did.

M’Adam could but remark the absence of enthusiasm as he pushed up through the throng toward the committee tent. No single voice hailed him victor; no friendly hand smote its congratulations. Broad backs were turned; contemptuous glances levelled; spiteful remarks shot. Only the foreign element looked curiously at the little bent figure with the glowing face, and shrank back at the size and savage aspect of the great dog at his heels.

But what cared he? His Wullie was acknowledged champion, the best sheepdog of

the year; and the lit Lie man was happy. They could turn their backs on him; but they could not alter that; and he could afford to be indifferent. “They dinna like it, lad—he! he! But they’ll e’en ha’ to thole it. Ye’ve won it, Wullie—won it fair.”

He elbowed through the press, making for the rope-guarded inclosure in front of the committee tent, round which the people were now packing. In the door of the tent stood the secretary, various stewards, and members of the committee. In front, alone in the roped-off space, was Lady Elenour, fragile, dainty, graceful, waiting with a smile upon her face to receive the winner. And on a table beside her, naked and dignified, the Shepherd’s Trophy.

There it stood, kingly and impressive; its fair white sides inscribed with many names; cradled in three shepherds’ crooks; and on the top, as if to guard the Cup’s contents, an exquistely carved collie’s head. The Shepherds’ Trophy, the goal of his life’s race, and many another man’s.

He climbed over the rope, followed by Red Wull, and took off his hat with almost courtly deference to the fair lady before him.

As he walked tip to the table on which the Cup stood, a shrill voice, easily recognizable, broke the silence.

“You’d like it better if ‘twas full and yo’ could swim in it, you and yer Wullie,” it called. Whereat the crowd giggled, and Lady Eleanour looked indignant.

The little man turned.

“I’ll mind drink yer health, Mr. Thornton, never fear, though I ken ye’d prefaire to drink yer am,” he said. At which the crowd giggled afresh; and a gray head at the back, which had hoped itself unrecognized, disappeared suddenly.

The little man stood there in the stillness, sourly smiling, his face still wet from his exertions; while the Tailless Tyke at his side fronted defiantly the serried ring of onlookers, a white fence of teeth faintly visible between his lips.

Lady Eleanour looked uneasy. Usually the lucky winner was unable to hear her little speech, as she gave the Cup away, so deafening was the applause. Now there was utter silence. She glanced up at the crowd, but there was no response to her unspoken appeal in that forest of hostile faces. And her gentle heart bled for the forlorn little man before her. To make it up she smiled on him so sweetly as to more than compensate him.

“I’m sure you deserve your success, Mr. M’Adam,” she said. “You and Red Wull there worked splendidly—everybody says so.”

“I’ve heard naethin’ o’t,” the little man answered dryly. At which some one in the crowd sniggered.

“And we all know what a grand dog he is; though”—with a reproving smile as she glanced at Red Wull’s square, truncated stern—”