The younger man laughed. He was broadening in more ways than one, and he bore no malice. ‘Happen they do,’ he said. ‘Yo just watch, fayther, an’ happen yo’ll leearn summat.’ He reached up to the blackened oak beam that spanned the ceiling, took down his gun, and strolled casually out across the yard. In a moment Lucy had tumultuously burst out of the kennel and was dancing about him, all animation and keenness. Graceless she might be, and lacking in the discharge of her mothering duties, but heart and soul she was a lover of sport. At the sight of the gun she was in transports. Unheeding her, young Zub passed on through the gate. Wriggling through ere it closed, Lucy was after him and away in front of him like a streak, making river-wards. There, as well she knew, were the plumpest rabbits. When the old dalesman, his curiosity whetted, reached a point where he could see without being seen, the two were ranging the low field where runs the Wharfe. Steadily they passed along through Dub End and into Lang Pasture, the gun still hooked in the curl of the man’s arm, then as they came through the field gate together into the High Garth Lucy’s tail suddenly drooped. She hesitated, turned about in indecision, and finally, disregarding the sharp whistle calling her to heel, slid off up the hill under the wall-side and vanished by the riven oak. ‘Dang it,’ said Owd Zub, greatly interested, and understanding, ‘I owt to ha’ knawn shoo’d ha’ gooan to ’em if they came owt near ’em.’ By the time he arrived on the spot, and he walked across the field with a great show of carelessness, Zubdil had the whimpering youngsters on the grass and was examining them. Couched near by, her tail going in great pride, Lucy was mothering each one as it was laid down again. ‘They’re a poor lot,’ said the elder man, eyeing them critically, and discreetly making no reference to the finding of them; ‘put ’em ivvery one i’ t’ pail.’ Zubdil did not reply immediately. He was watching one puppy, more vigorous than any of the rest, trying to prop itself up on its forelegs. Its sightless eyes were turned towards him, its tiny nostrils were working, and there was a decided quiver—it was an immature wagging—in its wisp of a tail. He picked it up again. A tiny patch of red slid out and licked his hand, and there were faint noises that brought Lucy’s ears to the prick. Zubdil laughed. ‘Sitha for pluck, fayther,’ he cried. ‘This is best o’ t’ lot. I’se keeping this for mysen.’ ‘Thou’ll drown t’ lot,’ said his father, sharply. ‘We’ve dogs enough on t’ farm. Besides, they’re hawf deead.’