“So I thought,” he said, “so I thought! And I s'pose ye're thinkin' that yer luck,” nodding at the gray dog, “will win you the Cup for certain a month hence.”
“I hope so!” said the Master.
“Strange if he should not after all,” mused the little man.
James Moore eyed him suspiciously. “What d'yo' mean?” he asked sternly. M'Adam shrugged his shoulders. “There's mony a slip 'twixt Cup and lip, that's a'. I was thinkin' some mischance might come to him.”
The Master's eyes flashed dangerously. He recalled the many rumors he had heard, and the attempt on the old dog early in the year.
“I canna think ony one would be coward enough to murder him,” he said, drawing himself up.
M'Adam leant forward. There was a nasty glitter in his eye, and his face was all a-tremble.
“Ye'd no think ony one 'd be cooard enough to set the son to murder the father. Yet some one did—set the lad on to 'sassinate me. He failed at me, and next, I suppose, he'll try at Wullie!” There was a flush on the sallow face, and a vindictive ring in the thin voice. “One way or t'ither, fair or foul, Wullie or me, ain or baith, has got to go afore Cup Day, eh, James Moore! eh?”
The Master put his hand on the latch of the gate, “That'll do, M'Adam,” he said. “I'll stop to hear no more, else I might get angry wi' yo'. Noo git off this gate, yo're trespassin' as 'tis.”
He shook the gate. M'Adam tumbled off, and went sprawling into the sheep clustered below. Picking himself up, he dashed on through the flock, waving his arms, kicking fantastically, and scattering confusion everywhere.