"What, man? What is it?"

"I misdoot yo'll iver see your dog agin, mister," Sam'l repeated, as
if he was supplying the key to the mystery.

"Noo, Sam'l, if yo' know owt tell it, "ordered his master.

Sam'l grunted sulkily.

"Wheer's oor Bob, then?" he asked.

At that M'Adam turned on the Master.

'Tis that, nae doot. It's yer gray dog, James Moore, yer--dog. I
might ha' kent it, "--and he loosed off a volley of foul words.

"Sweerin' will no find him," said the Master coldly. "Noo, Sam'l."

The big man shifted his feet, and looked mournfully at M'Adam.

'Twas 'appen 'aif an hour agone, when I sees oor Bob goin' oot o'
yard wi' little yaller tyke in his mouth. In a minnit I looks agin--
and theer! little yaller 'Un was gone, and oor Bob a-sittin' a-lickin'
his chops. Gone for-iver, I do reck'n. Ah, yo' may well take on,
Tammas Thornton!" For the old man was rolling about the yard,
bent double with merriment.

M'Adam turned on the Master with the resignation of despair.