"He cannot keep it up, can’t th’ lad," murmured Hiram Hey. "Sakes, I’ve a mind to run in myseln an’ do summat—though I mun be crazy to think on ’t.—Hallo, what’s agate wi’ Red Ratcliffe? He looks pleased-like, an’ he’s getten off his horse. Oh, that’s it, is’t? Well, I can do a bit o’ summat, happen, after all." Hiram moved briskly up to the pinfold and reached the hinder wall just as Red Ratcliffe was climbing over it; he set a pair of arms about his middle, as he had done to one of the Wildwater farm-folk not long ago, and put his muscle into the lift, and brought his enemy with a thud on to the peat five yards away. "Fair play’s a jewel ye’ve niver learned th’ price on at Wildwater," he said quietly. "Ye war for sticking th’ Maister i’ th’ back, as ye could no way meet him i’ front? Well, there’s two opinions about ivery matter, an’ mine’s th’ reet un this time, I’m thinking. ’Twar a Providence, it war, that yond hind o’ thine came in to th’ Friendly tavern yesterneet; he braced me fine for hoicking feather-weights ower my shoulder, like." The shepherds looked at Hiram, and then at Red Ratcliffe, who was lifting himself in dazed sort to a sitting posture; it was plain they needed but the one word to close round and stamp the life out of this treacherous hound who could aim to strike from behind when Wayne had proved his match in open fight. But Hiram had an old grievance to straighten—a grievance that had rankled ever since Red Ratcliffe interrupted his courtship on a long-dead day of spring—and he paid no heed to his comrades’ meaning glances. "So, Maister; ye fooiled me once on a time, as ye called to mind just now—an’ now I’ve fooiled ye," said Hiram, stroking his frill of beard and watching Red Ratcliffe’s lowering face. "And, by Wayne’s cursed Dog, the third time shall pay for all," snapped the other, making a second effort to stand upright. "Mebbe, but I’m fain to hev squared th’ reckoning, choose what comes. Ay, it war grand, warn’t it, to get Hiram Hey to tell ye how mich ling an’ bracken there war at Marsh, an’ th’ varry spot it war stored in? Ye went home fetching a rare crack o’ laughter, I’ll be bound, an’ ye came that varry neet to mak use o’ what I telled ye. What, ye’re dizzy sick? An’ I’m laughing. An’ that’s how th’ world allus wags wi’ them as thinks to best Hiram Hey." Red Ratcliffe shook off his dizziness, and snatched a dagger from his belt. "Thou foul-mouthed sot, I’ll teach thee to set thyself against thy betters," he cried.