murderous fury that it took all the men in the room to pull han off.

More than once had he and Owd Bob essayed to wipe out mutual
memories, Red Wull, in this case only, the aggressor. As yet,
however, while they fenced a moment for that deadly throat-grip,
the value of which each knew so well, James Moore had always
seized the chance to intervene.

"That's right, hide him ahint yer petticoats," sneered M'Adam on
one of these occasions.

"Hide? It'll not be him I'll hide, I warn you, M'Adam," the Master
answered grimly, as he stood, twirling his good oak stick between
the would-be duellists. Whereat there was a loud laugh at the little
man's expense.

It seemed as if there were to be other points of rivalry between the
two than memories. For, in the matter of his own business--the
handling of sheep--Red Wull bid fair to be second only throughout
the Daleland to the Gray Dog of Kenmuir. And M'Adam was
patient and painstaking in the training of his Wullie in a manner to
astonish David. It would have been touching, had it not been so
unnatural in view of his treatment of his own blood, to watch the
tender carefulness with which the little man moulded the dog
beneath his hands. After a promising display he would stand,
rubbing his palms together, as near content as ever he was.

"Weel done, Wullie! Weel done. Bide a wee and we'll show 'em a
thing or two, you and I, Wullie.