Another moment and M'Adam had reached the bank of the stream. In he plunged, splashing and cursing, and seized the struggling puppy; then waded back, the waters surging about his waist, and Red Wull, limp as a wet rag, in his hand. The little man's hair was dripping, for his cap was gone; his clothes clung to him, exposing the miserableness of his figure; and his eyes blazed like hot ashes in his wet face. He sprang on to the bank, and, beside himself with passion, rushed at Owd Bob. “Curse ye for a ----” “Stan' back, or yo'll have him at your throat!” shouted the Master, thundering up. “Stan' back, I say, yo' fule!” And, as the little man still came madly on, he reached forth his hand and hurled him back; at the same moment, bending, he buried the other hand deep in Owd Bob's shaggy neck. It was but just in time; for if ever the fierce desire of battle gleamed in gray eyes, it did in the young dog's as M'Adam came down on him. The little man staggered, tottered, and fell heavily. At the shock, the blood gushed from his nose, and, mixing with the water on his face, ran down in vague red streams, dripping off his chin; while Red Wull, jerked from his grasp, was thrown afar, and lay motionless. “Curse ye!” M'Adam screamed, his face dead-white save for the running red about his jaw. “Curse ye for a cowardly Englishman!” and, struggling to his feet, he made at the Master. But Sam'l interposed his great bulk between the two. “Easy, little mon,” he said leisurely, regarding the small fury before him with mournful interest. “Eh, but thee do be a little spit-cat, surely!” James Moore stood, breathing deep, his hand still buried in Owd Bob's coat. “If yo'd touched him,” he explained, “I couldna ha' stopped him. He'd ha' mauled yo' afore iver I could ha' had him off. They're bad to hold, the Gray Dogs, when they're roosed.” “Ay, ma word, that they are!” corroborated Tammas, speaking from the experience of sixty years. “Once on, yo' canna get 'em off.” The little man turned away. “Ye're all agin me,” he said, and his voice shook. A pitiful figure he made, standing there with the water dripping from him. A red stream was running slowly from his chin; his head was bare, and face working. James Moore stood eyeing him with some pity and some contempt. Behind was Tammas, enjoying the scene. While Sam'l regarded them all with an impassive melancholy. M'Adam turned and bent over Red Wull, who still lay like a dead thing. As his master handled him, the button-tail quivered feebly; he opened his eyes, looked about him, snarled faintly, and glared with devilish hate at the gray dog and the group with him. The little man picked him up, stroking him tenderly. Then he turned away and on to the bridge. Half-way across he stopped. It rattled feverishly beneath him, for he still trembled like a palsied man. “Man, Moore!” he called, striving to quell the agitation in his voice--“I wad shoot yon dog.”