“Oh, dear! Oh, dear!” groaned Sam'l. But the old man heard him not. “Did 'Enry Farewether tell yo' hoo he acted this mornin', Master?” he inquired, addressing the man at the foot of the ladder. “Nay,” said the other, his stern eyes lighting. “Why, 'twas this way, it seems,” Tammas continued. “Young bull gets 'isseif loose, somegate and marches oot into yard, o'erturns milkpail, and prods owd pigs i' ribs. And as he stands lookin' about un, thinking' what he shall be up to next, oor Bob sees un 'An' what yo' doin' here, Mr. Bull?' he seems to say, cockin' his ears and trottin' up gay-like. Wi' that bull bloats fit to bust 'isseif, lashes wi's tail, waggles his head, and gets agate o' chargin' 'im. But Bob leaps oot o' way, quick as lightnin' yet cool as butter, and when he's done his foolin drives un back agin.” “Who seed all this?” interposed Sam'l, sceptically. “'Enry Farewether from the loft. So there, Fat'ead!” Tammas replied, and continued his tale. “So they goes on; bull chargin' and Bob drivin' un back and back, hoppin' in and oot agin, quiet as a cowcumber, yet determined. At last Mr. Bull sees it's no manner o' use that gate, so he turns, rares up, and tries to jump wall. Nary a bit. Young dog jumps in on un and nips him by tail. Wi' that, bull tumbles down in a hurry, turns wi' a kind o' groan, and marches back into stall, Bob after un. And then, dang me!”--the old man beat the ladder as he loosed off this last titbit,--“if he doesna sit' isseif i' door like a sentrynel till 'Enry Farewether coom up. Hoo's that for a tyke not yet a year?” Even Sam'l Todd was moved by the tale. “Well done, oor Bob!” he cried. “Good, lad!” said the Master, laying a hand on the dark head at his knee. “Yo' may well say that,” cried Tammas in a kind of ecstasy. “A proper Gray Dog, I tell yo'. Wi' the brains of a man and the way of a woman. Ah, yo' canna beat 'em nohow, the Gray Dogs o' Kenmuir!” The patter of cheery feet rang out on the plank-bridge over the stream below them. Tammas glanced round. “Here's David,” he said. “Late this mornin' he be.” A fair-haired boy came spurring up the slope, his face all aglow with the speed of his running. Straightway the young dog dashed off to meet him with a fiery speed his sober gait belied. The two raced back together into the yard. “Poor lad!” said Sam'l gloomily, regarding the newcomer. “Poor heart!” muttered Tammas. While the Master's face softened visibly. Yet there looked little to pity in this jolly, rocking lad with the tousle of light hair and fresh, rosy countenance. “G'mornin', Mister Moore! Morn'n, Tammas! Morn'n, Sam'l!” he panted as he passed; and ran on through the hay-carpeted yard, round the corner of the stable, and into the house.