“Oot o' ma path, or I'll strike!” shouted the little man in a fury, as the last sheep passed through the gate.
“I'd not,” warned the Master.
“But I will!” yelled M'Adam; and, darting forward as the gate swung to, struck furiously at his opponent.
He missed, and the gray dog charged at him like a mail-train.
“Hi! James Moore—” but over he went like a toppled wheelbarrow, while the old dog turned again, raced at the gate, took it magnificently in his stride, and galloped up the lane after his master.
At M'Adam's yell, James Moore had turned.
“Served yo' properly!” he called back. “He'll larn ye yet it's not wise to tamper wi' a gray dog or his sheep. Not the first time he's downed ye, I'm thinkin'!”
The little man raised himself painfully to his elbow and crawled toward the gate. The Master, up the lane, could hear him cursing as he dragged himself. Another moment, and a head was poked through the bars of the gate, and a devilish little face looked after him.
“Downed me, by—, he did!” the little man cried passionately. “I owed ye baith somethin' before this, and noo, by ——, I owe ye somethin' more. An' mind ye, Adam M'Adam pays his debts!”
“I've heard the contrary,” the Master replied drily, and turned away up the lane toward the Marches.