“The Dale Cup and Th' Owd Un! The Trophy and oor Bob! 'Ip, 'ip, for the gray dogs! 'Ip, 'ip, for the best sheep-dog as ever was or will be! 'Ooray, 'ooray!”
It is some minutes before the noise subsides; and slowly the enthusiasts resume their seats with hoarse throats and red faces.
“Gentlemen a'!”
A little unconsidered man is standing up at the back of the room. His face is aflame, and his hands twitch spasmodically; and, in front, with hackles up and eyes gleaming, is a huge, bull-like dog.
“Noo,” cries the little man, “I daur ye to repeat that lie!”
“Lie!” screams Tammas; “lie! I'll gie 'im lie! Lemme at im', I say!”
The old man in his fury is half over the surrounding ring of chairs before Jim Mason on the one hand and Jonas Maddox on the other can pull him back.
“Coom, Mr. Thornton,” soothes the octogenarian, “let un be. Yo' surely bain't angered by the likes o' 'im!”—and he jerks contemptuously toward the solitary figure at his back.
Tammas resumes his seat unwillingly.
The little man in the far corner of the room remains silent, waiting for his challenge to be taken up. It is in vain. And as he looks at the range of broad, impassive backs turned on him, he smiles bitterly.