Moore?" asked the little man very smoothly.

"Yes--sweer," the other replied, and strode out of the room amid a
roar of derisive laughter at M'Adam's expense.

Owd Bob had now attained wellnigh the perfection of his art.
Parson Leggy declared roundly that his like had not been seen
since the days of Rex son of Rally. Among the Dalesmen he was a
heroic favorite, his prowess and gentle ways winning him friends
on every hand. But the point that told most heavily for him was
that in all things he was the very antithesis of Red Wull.

Barely a man in the country-side but owed that ferocious savage a
grudge; not a man of them all who dared pay it. Once Long Kirby,
full of beer and valor, tried to settle his account. Coming on
M'Adam and Red Wull as he was driving into Grammoch-town, he
lent over and with his thong dealt the dog a terrible sword-like
slash that raised an angry ridge of red from hip to shoulder; and
was twenty yards down the road before the little man's shrill curse
reached his ear, drowned in a hideous bellow.

He stood up and lashed the colt, who, quick on his legs for a young
un, soon settled to his gallop. But, glancing over his shoulder, he
saw a hounding form behind, catching him as though he were
walking. His face turned sickly white; he screamed; he flogged; he
looked back. Right beneath the tail-board was the red devil in the
dust; while racing a furlong behind on the turnpike road was the
mad figure of M'Adam.

The smith struck back and flogged forward. It was of no avail.