in the little man's hand:

"Oh, yo're that sort, are yo', foxy?" he leered. "Gie us a look at 'er,"
and he tried to disengage the picture from the other's grasp. But at
the attempt the great dog rose, bared his teeth, and assumed such a
diabolical expression that the big landlord retreated hurriedly
behind the bar.

"Two on ye!" he shouted viciously, rattling his heels; "beasts
baith!"

PART III THE SHEPHERDS' TROPHY

Chapter IX. RIVALS

M'ADAM never forgave his son. After the scene on the evening of
the funeral there could be no alternative but war for all time. The
little man had attempted to humble himself, and been rejected; and
the bitterness of defeat, when he had deserved victory, rankled like
a poisoned barb in his bosom.

Yet the heat of his indignation was directed not against David, but
against the Master of Kenmuir. To the influence and agency of
James Moore he attributed his discomfiture, and bore himself
accordingly. In public or in private, in tap-room or market, he
never wearied of abusing his enemy.

"Feel the loss o' his wife, d'ye say?" he would cry. "Ay, as muckle
as I feel the loss o' my hair. James Moore can feel naethin', I tell
ye, except, aiblins, a mischance to his meeserable dog."