It was long after dark when the bargain was finally struck. Adam M'Adam's Red Wull became that little man's property for the following realizable assets: ninepence in cash--three coppers and a doubtful sixpence; a plug of suspicious tobacco in a well-worn pouch; and an old watch. “It's clean givin' 'im ye,” said the stranger bitterly, at the end of the deal. “It's mair the charity than aught else mak's me sae leeberal,” the other answered gently. “I wad not like to see ye pinched.” “Thank ye kindly,” the big man replied with some acerbity, and plunged out into the darkness and rain. Nor was that long-limbed drover-man ever again seen in the countryside. And the puppy's previous history--whether he was honestly come by or no, whether he was, indeed, of the famous Red McCulloch* strain, ever remained a mystery in the Daleland. *N. B.--You may know a Red McCulloch anywhere by the ring of white upon his tail some two inches from the root. Chapter IV. FIRST BLOOD AFTER that first encounter in the Dalesman's Daughter, Red Wull, for so M'Adam called him, resigned himself complacently to his lot; recognizing, perhaps, his destiny. Thenceforward the sour little man and the vicious puppy grew, as it were, together. The two were never apart. Where M'Adam was, there was sure to be his tiny attendant, bristling defiance as he kept ludicrous guard over his master. The little man and his dog were inseparable. M'Adam never left him even at the Grange. “I couldna trust ma Wullie at hame alone wi' the dear lad,” was his explanation. “I ken weel I'd come back to find a wee corpse on the floor, and David singin': 'My heart is sair, I daur na tell, My heart is sair for somebody.' Ay, and he'd be sair elsewhere by the time I'd done wi' him--he! he!” The sneer at David's expense was as characteristic as it was unjust. For though the puppy and the boy were already sworn enemies, yet the lad would have scorned to harm so small a foe. And many a tale did David tell at Kenmuir of Red Wull's viciousness, of his hatred of him (David), and his devotion to his master; how, whether immersed in the pig-bucket or chasing the fleeting rabbit, he would desist at once, and bundle, panting, up at his master's call; how he routed the tomcat and drove him from the kitchen; and how he clambered on to David's bed and pinned him murderously by the nose. Of late the relations between M'Adam and James Moore had been unusually strained. Though they were neighbors, communications between the two were of the rarest; and it was for the first time for many a long day that, on an afternoon shortly after Red Wull had come into his possession, M'Adam entered the yard of Kenmuir, bent on girding at the master for an alleged trespass at the Stony Bottom. “Wi' yer permission, Mr. Moore,” said the little man, “I'll wheestle ma dog,” and, turning, he whistled a shrill, peculiar note like the cry of a disturbed peewit.