parson, squire, and even Lady Eleanour essayed to shake his
purpose. It was nigh fifty years since Rex son o' Rally had won
back the Trophy for the land that gave it birth; it was time, they
thought, for a Daleland dog, a Gray Dog of Kenmuir--the terms are
practically synonymous--to bring it home again. And Tarnmas, that
polished phrase-maker, was only expressing the feelings of every
Dalesman in the room when, one night at the Arms, he declared of
Owd Bob that "to ha' run was to ha' won." At which M'Adam
sniggered audibly and winked at Red Wull. "To ha' run was to ha'
one--lickin'; to rin next year'll be to-- Win next year." Tammas
interposed dogmatically. "Onless "--with shivering sarcasm

--"you and yer Wullie are thinkin' o' winnin'." The little man rose
from his solitary seat at the back of the room and pattered across.

"Wullie and I are thinkin' o' t," he whispered loudly in the old
man's ear. "And mair:

what Adam M'Adam and his Red Wull think o' doin', that, ye may
remairk, Mr. Thornton, they do. Next year we rin, and next year--
we win. Come, Wullie, we'll leave 'em to chew that"; and he
marched out of the room amid the jeers of the assembled topers.
When quiet was restored, it was Jim Mason who declared: "One
thing certain, win or no, they'll not he far off."

Meanwhile the summer ended abruptly. Hard on the heels of a
sweltering autumn the winter came down. In that year the
Daleland assumed very early its white cloak. The Silver Mere was
soon ice-veiled; the Wastrel rolled sullenly down below Kenmuir,
its creeks and quiet places tented with jagged sheets of ice; while