FROM that hour the fire of M'Adam's jealousy blazed into a mighty flame. The winning of the Dale Cup had become a mania with him. He had won it once, and would again despite all the Moores, all the Gray Dogs, all the undutiful sons in existence; on that point he was resolved. The fact of his having tasted the joys of victory served to whet his desire. And now he felt he could never be happy till the Cup was his own--won outright. At home David might barely enter the room There the trophy stood. “I'll not ha' ye touch ma Cup, ye dirty-fingered, ill-begotten wastrel. Wullie and me won it--you'd naught to do wi' it. Go you to James Moore and James Moore's dog.” “Ay, and shall I tak' Cup wi' me? or will ye bide till it's took from ye?” So the two went on; and every day the tension approached nearer breaking-point. In the Dale the little man met with no sympathy. The hearts of the Dalesmen were to a man with Owd Bob and his master. Whereas once at the Sylvester Arms his shrill, ill tongue had been rarely still, now he maintained a sullen silence; Jem Burton, at least, had no cause of complaint. Crouched away in a corner, with Red Wull beside him, the little man would sit watching and listening as the Dalesmen talked of Owd Bob's doings, his staunchness, sagacity, and coming victory. Sometimes he could restrain himself no longer. Then he would spring to his feet, and stand, a little swaying figure, and denounce them passionately in almost pathetic eloquence. These orations always concluded in set fashion. “Ye're all agin us!” the little man would cry in quivering voice. “We are that,” Tammas would answer complacently. “Fair means or foul, ye're content sae lang as Wullie and me are beat. I wonder ye dinna poison him--a little arsenic, and the way's clear for your Bob.” “'The way is clear enough wi'oot that,” from Tammas caustically. Then a lengthy silence, only broken by that exceeding bitter cry: “Eh, Wullie, Wullie, they're all agin us!” * * * * * And always the rivals--red and gray--went about seeking their opportunity. But the Master, with his commanding presence and stern eyes, was ever ready for them. Toward the end, M'Adam, silent and sneering, would secretly urge on Red Wull to the attack; until, one day in Grammoch-town, James Moore turned on him, his blue eyes glittering. “D'yo' think, yo' little fule,” he cried in that hard voice of his, “that onst they got set we should iver git either of them off alive?” It seemed to strike the little man as a novel idea; for, from that moment, he was ever the first in his feverish endeavors to oppose his small form, buffer-like, between the would-be combatants. * * * * * Curse as M'Adam might, threaten as he might, when the time came Owd Bob won. The styles of the rivals were well contrasted: the patience, the insinuating eloquence, combined with the splendid dash, of the one; and the fierce, driving fury of the other.