More than once had he and Owd Bob essayed to wipe out mutual memories, Red Wull, in this case only, the aggressor. As yet, however, while they fenced a moment for that deadly throat-grip, the value of which each knew so well, James Moore had always seized the chance to intervene. “That's right, hide him ahint yer petticoats,” sneered M'Adam on one of these occasions. “Hide? It'll not be him I'll hide, I warn you, M'Adam,” the Master answered grimly, as he stood, twirling his good oak stick between the would-be duellists. Whereat there was a loud laugh at the little man's expense. It seemed as if there were to be other points of rivalry between the two than memories. For, in the matter of his own business--the handling of sheep--Red Wull bid fair to be second only throughout the Daleland to the Gray Dog of Kenmuir. And M'Adam was patient and painstaking in the training of his Wullie in a manner to astonish David. It would have been touching, had it not been so unnatural in view of his treatment of his own blood, to watch the tender carefulness with which the little man moulded the dog beneath his hands. After a promising display he would stand, rubbing his palms together, as near content as ever he was. “Weel done, Wullie! Weel done. Bide a wee and we'll show 'em a thing or two, you and I, Wullie. “'The warld's wrack we share o't, The warstle and the care o't.' For it's you and I alane, lad.” And the dog would trot up to him, place his great forepaws on his shoulders, and stand thus with his great head overtopping his master's, his ears back, and stump tail vibrating. You saw them at their best when thus together, displaying each his one soft side to the other. From the very first David and Red Wull were open enemies: under the circumstances, indeed, nothing else was possible. Sometimes the great dog would follow on the lad's heels with surly, greedy eyes, never leaving him from sunrise to sundown, till David could hardly hold his hands. So matters went on for a never-ending year. Then there came a climax. One evening, on a day throughout which Red Wull had dogged him thus hungrily, David, his work finished, went to pick up his coat, which he had left hard by. On it lay Red Wull. “Git off ma coat!” the boy ordered angrily, marching up. But the great dog never stirred: he lifted a lip to show a fence of white, even teeth, and seemed to sink lower in the ground; his head on his paws, his eyes in his forehead. “Come and take it!” he seemed to say. Now what, between master and dog, David had endured almost more than he could bear that day. “Yo' won't, won't yo', girt brute!” he shouted, and bending, snatched a corner of the coat and attempted to jerk it away. At that, Red Wull rose, shivering, to his feet, and with a low gurgle sprang at the boy.