Bob, Son of Battle, Alfred Ollivant [graded readers txt] 📗
- Author: Alfred Ollivant
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‘Twas you as took ma Cup?” asked the little man at last, leaning forward in his chair.
‘Twas me as took Mr. Moore’s Cup,” the boy replied. “I thowt yo’ mun ha’ done wi’ it—I found it all hashed upon the floor.”
“You took it—pit up to it, nae doot, by James Moore.”
David made a gesture of dissent.
“Ay, by James Moore,” his father continued. “He dursena come hissel’ for his ill-gotten spoils, so he sent the son to rob the father. The coward!”—his whole frame shook with passion. “I’d ha’ thocht James Moore’d ha’ bin man enough to come himself for what he wanted. I see noo I did him a wrang—I misjudged him. I kent him a heepocrite; am o’ yer unco gudes; a man as looks one thing, says anither, and does a third; and noo I ken he’s a coward. He’s fear’d o’ me, sic as I am, five foot twa in ma stockin’s.” He rose from his chair and drew himself up to his full
“Mr. Moore had nowt to do wi’ it,” David persisted.
“Ye’re lyin’. James Moore pit ye to it.”
“I tell yo’ he did not.”
“Ye’d ha’ bin willin’ enough wi’oot him, if ye’d thocht o’t, I grant ye. But ye’ve no the wits. All there is o’ ye has gane to mak’ yer rnuckle body. Hooiver, that’s no matter. I’ll settle wi’ James Moore anither time. I’ll settle wi’ you noo, David M’Adam.”
He paused, and looked the boy over from bead to foot.
So, ye’re not only an idler! a wastrel! a liar! “—he spat the words out. “Ye’re—God help ye—a thief!”
“I’m no thief!” the boy returned hotly. “I did but give to a mon what ma feyther— shame on hirn!—wrongfully kept from him.”
“Wrangfully?” cried the little man, advancing with burning face.
‘Twas honorably done, keepin’ what wasna your’n to keep! Holdin’ back his rights from a man! Ay, if ony one’s the thief, it’s not me: it’s you, I say, you! “—and he looked his father in the face with flashing eyes.
“I’m the thief, am I?” cried the other, incoherent with passion. “Though ye’re three times ma size, I’ll teach ma son to speak so to me.”
The old strap, now long disused, hung in the chimney corner. As he spoke the little man sprang back, ripped it from the wall, and, almost before David realized what he was at, had brought it down with a savage slash across his son’s shoulders; and as he smote he whistled a shrill, imperative note:
“Wullie, Wullie, to me!”
David felt the blow through his coat like a bar of hot iron laid across his back. His passion seethed within him; every vein throbbed; every nerve quivered. In a minute he would wipe out, once and for all, the score of years; for the moment, however, there was urgent business on hand. For outside he could hear the quick patter of feet hard-galloping, and the scurry of a huge creature racing madly to a call.
With a bound he sprang at the open door; and again the strap came lashing down, and a wild voice:
“Quick, Wullie! For God’s sake, quick!”
David slammed the door to. It shut with a rasping snap; and at the same moment a great body from without thundered against it with terrific violence, and a deep voice roared like the sea when thwarted of its prey.
“Too late, agin!” said David, breathing hard; and shot the bolt home with a clang. Then he turned on his father.
“Noo,” said he, “man to man!”
“Ay,” cried the other, “father to son!”
The little man half turned and leapt at the old musketoon hanging on the wall. He missed it, turned again, and struck with the strap full at the other’s face. David caught the falling arm at the wrist, hitting it aside with such tremendous force that the bone all but snapped. Then he smote his father a terrible blow on the chest, and the little man staggered back, gasping, into the corner; while the strap dropped from his numbed fingers.
Outside Red Wull whined and scratched; but the two men paid no heed.
David strode forward; there was murder in his face. The little man saw it: his time was come; but his bitterest foe never impugned Adam M’Adam’s courage.
He stood huddled in the corner, all dis-. hevelled, nursing one arm with the other, entirely unafraid.
“Mind, David,” he said, quite calm, “murder ‘twill be, not manslaughter.”
“Murder ‘twill be,” the boy answered, in thick, low voice, and was across the room.
Outside Red Wull banged and clawed high up on the door with impotent pats.
The little man suddenly slipped his hand in his pocket, pulled out something, and flung it. The missile pattered on his son’s face like a rain-drop on a charging bull, and David smiled as he came on. It dropped softly on the table at his side; he looked down and—it was the face of his mother which gazed up at him!
“Mither!” he sobbed, stopping short. “Mither! Ma God, ye saved him—and me!”
He stood there, utterly unhinged, shaking and whimpering.
It was some minutes before he pulled himself together; then he walked to the wall, took down a pair of shears, and seated himself at the table, still trembling. Near him lay the miniature, all torn and crumpled, and beside it the deep-buried axe-head.
He picked up the strap and began cutting it into little pieces.
“There! and there! and there!” he said with each snip. “An’ ye hit me agin there may be no mither to save ye.”
M’Adam stood huddling in the corner. He shook like an aspen leaf; his eyes blazed in his white face; and he still nursed one arm with the other.
“Honor yer father,” he quoted in small, low
Chapter XIV. A MAD MAN
TAMMAS is on his feet in the tap-room of the Arms, brandishing a pewter mug.
“Gen’lemen!” he cries, his old face flushed; “I gie you a toast. Stan’ oop!”
The knot of Dalesmen round the fire rises like one. The old man waves his mug before him, reckless of the good ale that drips on to the floor.
“The best sheepdog i’ th’ North—Owd Bob o’ Kenmuir!” he cries. In an instant there is uproar: the merry applause of clinking pewters; the stamping of feet; the rattle of sticks. Rob Saunderson and old Jonas are cheering with the best; Tupper and Ned Hoppin are bellowing in one another’s ears; Long Kirby and Jem Burton are thumping each other on the back; even Sam’l Todd and Sexton Ross are roused from their habitual melancholy.
“Here’s to Th’ Owd Un! Here’s to oor Bob!” yell stentorian voices; while Rob Saunderson has jumped on to a chair.
“Wi’ the best sheepdog i’ th’ North I gie yo’ the Shepherd’s Trophy!—won outreet as will be!” he cries. Instantly the clamor redoubles.
“The Dale Cup and Th’ Owd Un! The Trophy and oor Bob! ‘Ip, ‘ip, for the gray dogs! ‘Ip, ‘ip, for the best sheepdog as ever was or will be! ‘Ooray, ‘ooray!”
It is some minutes before the noise subsides; and slowly the enthusiasts resume their seats with hoarse throats and red faces.
“Gentlemen a’!”
A little unconsidered man is standing up at the back of the room. His face is aflame, and his hands twitch spasmodically; and, in front, with hackles up and eyes gleaming, is a huge, bull-like dog.
“Noo,” cries the little man, “I daur ye to repeat that lie!”
“Lie!” screams Tammas; “lie! I’ll gie ‘im lie! Lemme at im’, I say!”
The old man in his fury is half over the surrounding ring of chairs before Jim Mason on the one hand and Jonas Maddox on the other can pull him back.
‘Coom, Mr. Thornton,” soothes the octogenarian, “let un be. Yo’ surely bain’t angered by the likes o’ ‘im!”—and he jerks contemptuously toward the solitary figure at his back.
Tammas resumes his seat unwillingly.
The little man in the far corner of the room remains silent, waiting for his challenge to be taken up. It is in vain. And as he looks at the range of broad, impassive backs turned on him, he smiles bitterly.
“They dursen’t Wullie, not a man of them a’!” he cries. “They’re one—two—three– four—eleven to one, Wullie, and yet they dursen’t. Eleven of them, and every man a coward! Long Kirby—Thornton—Tupper—Todd—Hoppin—Ross—Burton—and the rest, and not one but’s a bigger man nor me, and yet—Weel, we might ha’ kent it. We should ha’ kent Englishmen by noo. They’re aye the same and aye have bin. They tell lies, black lies—”
Tammas is again half out his chair and, only forcibly restrained by the men on either hand.
“—and then they ha’ na the courage to stan’ by ‘em. Ye’re English, ivery man o’ ye, to yer marrow.”
The little man’s voice rises as he speaks. He seizes the tankard from the table at his side.
“Englishmen!” he cries, waving it before him. “Here’s a health! The best sheepdog as iver penned a flock—Adam M’Adam’s Red. Wull!”
He pauses, the pewter at his lips, and looks at his audience with flashing eyes. There is no response from them.
“Wullie, here’s to you!” he cries. “Luck and life to ye, ma trusty fier! Death and defeat to yer enemies!
He raises the tankard and drains it to its uttermost dreg.
Then drawing himself up, he addresses his audience once more:
“An’ noo I’ll warn ye aince and for a’, and ye may tell James Moore I said it: He may plot agin us, Wullie and me; he may threaten its; he may win the Cup outright for his muckle favorite; but there was niver a man or dog yet as did Adam M’Adam and his Red Wull a hurt but in the end he wush’t his mither hadna borne him.”
A little later, and he walks out of the inn, the Tailless Tyke at his heels.
After he is gone it is Rob Saunderson who says: “The little mon’s mad; he’ll stop at nothin”; and Tammas who answers:
“Nay; not even murder.”
The little man had aged much of late. His hair was quite white, his eyes unnaturally bright, and his hands were never still, as though he were in everlasting pain. He looked the picture of disease.
After Owd Bob’s second victory he had become morose and untalkative. At home he often sat silent for hours together, drinking and glaring at the place where the Cup had been. Sometimes he talked in low, eerie voice to Red Wull; and on two occasions, David, turning, suddenly, had caught his father glowering stealthily at him with such an expression on his face as chilled the boy’s blood. The two never spoke now; and David held this silent, deadly enmity far worse than the old-time perpetual warfare.
It was the same at the Sylvester Arms. The little man sat alone with Red Wull, exchanging words with no man, drinking steadily, brooding over his wrongs, only now and again galvanized into sudden action.
Other people than Tammas Thornton came to the conclusion that M’Adam would stop at nothing in the undoing of James Moore or the gray dog. They said drink and disappointment had turned his head; that he was mad and dangerous. And on New Year’s day matters seemed coming to a crisis; for it was reported that in the gloom of a snowy evening he had drawn a knife on the Master in the High Street, but slipped before he could accomplish his fell purpose.
Most of them all, David was haunted with an ever-present anxiety as to the little man’s intentions. The boy even went so far as to warn his friend against his father. But the Master only smiled
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