M'Adam turned on him. “What, man? What is it?” “I misdoot yo'll iver see your dog agin, mister,” Sam'l repeated, as if he was supplying the key to the mystery. “Noo, Sam'l, if yo' know owt tell it,” ordered his master. Sam'l grunted sulkily. “Wheer's oor Bob, then?” he asked. At that M'Adam turned on the Master. “'Tis that, nae doot. It's yer gray dog, James Moore, yer ---- dog. I might ha' kent it,”--and he loosed off a volley of foul words. “Sweerin' will no find him,” said the Master coldly. “Noo, Sam'l.” The big man shifted his feet, and looked mournfully at M'Adam. “'Twas 'appen 'aif an hour agone, when I sees oor Bob goin' oot o' yard wi' little yaller tyke in his mouth. In a minnit I looks agin--and theer! little yaller 'un was gone, and oor Bob a-sittin' a-lickin' his chops. Gone foriver, I do reck'n. Ah, yo' may well take on, Tammas Thornton!” For the old man was rolling about the yard, bent double with merriment. M'Adam turned on the Master with the resignation of despair. “Man, Moore,” he cried piteously, “it's yer gray dog has murdered ma wee Wull! Ye have it from yer ain man.” “Nonsense,” said the Master encouragingly. “'Tis but yon girt oof.” Sam'l tossed his head and snorted. “Coom, then, and i'll show yo',” he said, and led the way out of the yard. And there below them on the slope to the stream, sitting like Justice at the Courts of Law, was Owd Bob. Straightway Sam'l whose humor was something of the calibre of old Ross's, the sexton, burst into horse-merriment. “Why's he sittin' so still, think 'ee? Ho! Ho! See un lickin' his chops--ha! ha!”--and he roared afresh. While from afar you could hear the distant rumbling of 'Enry and oor Job. At the sight, M'Adam burst into a storm of passionate invective, and would have rushed on the dog had not James Moore forcibly restrained him. “Bob, lad,” called the Master, “coom here!” But even as he spoke, the gray dog cocked his ears, listened a moment, and then shot down the slope. At the same moment Tammas hallooed: “Theer he be! yon's yaller un coomin' oot o' drain! La, Sam'l!” And there, indeed, on the slope below them, a little angry, smutty-faced figure was crawling out of a rabbit-burrow. “Ye murderin' devil, wad ye duar touch ma Wullie?” yelled M'Adam, and, breaking away, pursued hotly down the hill; for the gray dog had picked up the puppy, like a lancer a tent-peg, and was sweeping on, his captive in his mouth, toward the stream. Behind, hurried James Moore and Sam'l, wondering what the issue of the comedy would be. After them toddled old Tammas, chuckling. While over the yard-wall was now a little cluster of heads: 'Enry, oor Job, Maggie and David, and Vi'let Thornton, the dairy-maid. Straight on to the plank-bridge galloped Owd Bob. In the middle he halted, leant over, and dropped his prisoner; who fell with a cool plop into the running water beneath.