in Owd Bob's shaggy neck. It was but just in time; for if ever the
fierce desire of battle gleamed in gray eyes, it did in the young
dog's as M'Adam came down on him.

The little man staggered, tottered, and fell heavily. At the shock,
the blood gushed from his nose, and, mixing with the water on his
face, ran down in vague red streams, dripping off his chin; while
Red Wull, jerked from his grasp, was thrown afar, and lay
motionless.

"Curse ye!" M'Adam screamed, his face dead-white save for the
running red about his jaw. "Curse ye for a cowardly Englishman!"
and, struggling to his feet, he made at the Master.

But Sam'l interposed his great bulk between the two.

"Easy, little mon," he said leisurely, regarding the small fury
before him with mournful interest. "Eli, but thee do be a little
spit-cat, surely!"

James Moore stood, breathing deep, his hand still buried in Owd
Bob's coat.

"If yo'd touched him," he explained, "I conidna ha' stopped him.
He'd ha' mauled yo' afore iver I could ha' had him off. They're bad
to hold, the Gray Dogs, when they're roosed."

"Ay, ma word, that they are!" corroborated Tammas, speaking
from the experience of sixty years. "Once on, yo' canna get 'em
off."