“Gie him back to me,” ordered the drover surlily. He took the puppy and set it on the floor; whereupon it immediately resumed its former fortified position. “Ye're no buyer; I knoo that all along by that face on ye,” he said in insulting tones. “Ye wad ha' bought him yerseif', nae doot?” M'Adam inquired blandly. “In course; if you says so.” “Or airblins ye bred him?” “'Appen I did.” “Ye'll no be from these parts?” “Will I no?” answered the other. A smile of genuine pleasure stole over M'Adam's face. He laid his hand on the other's arm. “Man,” he said gently, “ye mind me o' hame.” Then almost in the same breath: “Ye said ye found him?” It was the stranger's turn to laugh. “Ha! ha! Ye teekle me, little mon. Found 'im? Nay; I was give 'im by a friend. But there's nowt amiss wi' his breedin', ye may believe me.” The great fellow advanced to the chair under which the puppy lay. It leapt out like a lion, and fastened on his huge boot. “A rare bred un, look 'ee! a rare game un. Ma word, he's a big-hearted un! Look at the back on him; see the jaws to him; mark the pluck of him!” He shook his booted foot fiercely, tossing his leg to and fro like a tree in a wind. But the little creature, now raised ceilingward, now dashed to the ground, held on with incomparable doggedness, till its small jaw was all bloody and muzzle wrinkled with the effort. “Ay, ay, that'll do,” M'Adam interposed, irritably. The drover ceased his efforts. “Now, I'll mak' ye a last offer.” He thrust his head down to a level with the other's, shooting out his neck. “It's throwin' him at ye, mind. 'Tain't buyin' him ye'll be--don't go for to deceive yourself. Ye may have him for fifteen shillin'. Why do I do it, ye ask? Why, 'cos I think ye'll be kind to him,” as the puppy retreated to its chair, leaving a spotted track of red along its route. “Ay, ye wadna be happy gin ye thocht he'd no a comfortable hame, conseederate man?” M'Adam answered, eyeing the dark track on the floor. Then he put on his coat. “Na, na, he's no for me. Weel, I'll no detain ye. Good-nicht to ye, mister!” and he made for the door. “A gran' worker he'll be,” called the drover after him. “Ay; muckle wark he'll mak' amang the sheep wi' sic a jaw and sic a temper. Weel, I maun be steppin'. Good-nicht to ye.” “Ye'll niver have sich anither chanst.” “Nor niver wush to. Na, na; he'll never mak' a sheep-dog”; and the little man turned up the collar of his coat. “Will he not?” cried the other scornfully. “There niver yet was one o' that line--” he stopped abruptly. The little man spun round. “Iss?” he said, as innocent as any child; “ye were sayin'?” The other turned to the window and watched the rain falling monotonously. “Ye'll be wantin' wet,” he said adroitly. “Ay, we could do wi' a drappin'. And he'll never mak' a sheep-dog.” He shoved his cap down on his head. “Weel, good-nicht to ye!” and he stepped out into the rain. * * * * *