“Steady, lad, steady,” he whispered; “what is 't?” He peered forward into the gloom; and at length discerned a little familiar figure huddled away in the crevice between two stacks.
“It's yo, is it, M'Adam?” he said, and, bending, seized a wisp of Owd Bob's coat in a grip like a vice.
Then, in a great voice, moved to rare anger:
“Oot o' this afore I do ye a hurt, ye meeserable spyin' creetur” he roared. “Yo' mun wait till dark cooms to hide yo', yo' coward, afore yo daur coom crawlin' aboot ma hoose, frightenin' the women-folk and up to yer devilments. If yo've owt to say to me, coom like a mon in the open day. Noo git aff wi' yo', afore I lay hands to yo'!”
He stood there in the dusk, tall and mighty, a terrible figure, one hand pointing to the gate, the other still grasping the gray dog.
The little man scuttled away in the half-light, and out of the yard.
On the plank-bridge he turned and shook his fist at the darkening house.
“Curse ye, James Moore!” he sobbed, “I'll be even wi' ye yet.”