“Oh, yo're that sort, are yo', foxy?” he leered. “Gie us a look at 'er,” and he tried to disengage the picture from the other's grasp. But at the attempt the great dog rose, bared his teeth, and assumed such a diabolical expression that the big landlord retreated hurriedly behind the bar. “Two on ye!” he shouted viciously, rattling his heels; “beasts baith!” PART III THE SHEPHERDS' TROPHY Chapter IX. RIVALS M'ADAM never forgave his son. After the scene on the evening of the funeral there could be no alternative but war for all time. The little man had attempted to humble himself, and been rejected; and the bitterness of defeat, when he had deserved victory, rankled like a poisoned barb in his bosom. Yet the heat of his indignation was directed not against David, but against the Master of Kenmuir. To the influence and agency of James Moore he attributed his discomfiture, and bore himself accordingly. In public or in private, in tap-room or market, he never wearied of abusing his enemy. “Feel the loss o' his wife, d'ye say?” he would cry. “Ay, as muckle as I feel the loss o' my hair. James Moore can feel naethin', I tell ye, except, aiblins, a mischance to his meeserable dog.” When the two met, as they often must, it was always M'Adam's endeavor to betray his enemy into an unworthy expression of feeling. But James Moore, sorely tried as he often was, never gave way. He met the little man's sneers with a quelling silence, looking down on his asp-tongued antagonist with such a contempt flashing from his blue-gray eyes as hurt his adversary more than words. Only once was he spurred into reply. It was in the tap-room of the Dalesman's Daughter on the occasion of the big spring fair in Grammoch-town, when there was a goodly gathering of farmers and their dogs in the room. M'Adam was standing at the fireplace with Red Wull at his side. “It's a noble pairt ye play, James Moore,” he cried loudly across the room, “settin' son against father, and dividin' hoose against hoose. It's worthy o' ye we' yer churchgoin', and yer psalm-singin', and yer godliness.” The Master looked up from the far end of the room. “Happen yo're not aware, M'Adam,” he said sternly, “that, an' it had not bin for me, David'd ha' left you years agone--and 'twould nob'but ha' served yo' right, I'm thinkin'.” The little man was beaten on his own ground, so he changed front. “Dinna shout so, man--I have ears to hear, Forbye ye irritate Wullie.” The Tailless Tyke, indeed, had advanced from the fireplace, and now stood, huge and hideous, in the very centre of the room. There was distant thunder in his throat, a threat upon his face, a challenge in every wrinkle. And the Gray Dog stole gladly out from behind his master to take up the gage of battle.