"Man, Moore," he cried piteously, "it's yer gray dog has murdered
ma wee Wull! Ye have it from yer am man."

"Nonsense," said the Master encouragingly. " 'Tis but yon girt oof."

Sam'l tossed his head and snorted.

"Coom, then, and i'll show yo'," 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 Sam'l whose humor was something of the calibre of
old Ross's, the sexton, burst into horse-merriment. "Why's he
sit-tin' so still, think 'ee? Ho! Ho! See un lickin' his chops--ha! ha!
"--and he roared afresh. While from afar you could hear the distant
rumbling of 'Enry and oor Job.

At the sight, M'Adam burst into a storm of passionate invective,
and would have rushed on the dog had not James Moore forcibly
restrained him.

"Bob, lad," called the Master, "coom here!" 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: "Theer he
be! yon's yaller un coomin' oot o' drain! La, Sam'l!" And there,
indeed, on the slope below them, a little angry, smutty-faced figure
was crawling out of a rabbit-burrow.

"Ye murderin' devil, wad ye duar touch ma Wullie?" yelled
M'Adam, and, breaking away, pursued hotly down the hill; for the