Many a time was the Black Killer named in low-voiced conclave; many a time did Long Kirby, as he stood in the Border Ram and watched M'Adam and the Terror walking down the High, nudge Jim Mason and whisper: “Theer's the Killer--oneasy be his grave!” To which practical Jim always made the same retort: “Ay, theer's the Killer; but wheer's the proof?” And therein lay the crux. There was scarcely a man in the countryside who doubted the guilt of the Tailless Tyke; but, as Jim said, where was the proof? They could but point to his well-won nickname; his evil notoriety; say that, magnificent sheep-dog as he was, he was known even in his work as a rough handler of stock; and lastly remark significantly that the grange was one of the few farms that had so far escaped unscathed. For with the belief that the Black Killer was a sheep-dog they held it as an article of faith that he would in honour spare his master's flock. There may, indeed, have been prejudice in their judgement. For each has his private grudge against the Terror; and nigh every man bore on his own person, or his clothes, or on the body of his dog, the mark of that huge savage. Proof? “Why, he near killed ma Lassie!” cries Londesley. “And he did kill the Wexer!” “And Wan Tromp!” “And see pore old Wenus!” says John Swan, and pulls out that fair Amazon, battered almost past recognition, but a warrioress still. “That's Red Wull--bloody be his end!” “And he laid ma Rasper by for nigh three weeks!” continues Tupper, pointing to the yet-unhealed scars on the neck of the big bobtail. “See thisey--his work.” “And look here!” cries Saunderson, exposing a ragged wound in Shep's throat; “thot's the Terror--black be his fa'!” “Ay,” says Long Kirby with an oath; “the tykes love him nigh as much as we do.” “Yes,” says Tammas. “Yo' jest watch!” The old man slips out of the tap-room; and in another moment from the road without comes a heavy, regular pat-pat-pat, as of some big creature approaching, and, blending with the sound, little shuffling footsteps. In an instant every dog in the room has risen to his feet and stands staring at the door with sullen, glowing eyes; lips wrinkling, bristles rising, throats rumbling. An unsteady hand fumbles at the door; a reedy voice calls, “Wullie, come here!” and the dogs move away, surly to either side of the fireplace, tails down, ears back, grumbling still; the picture of cowed passion. Then the door opens; Tammas enters, grinning; and each, after a moment's scrutiny, resumes his former position before the fire. * * * * *