Maggie had carried wee Anne to tender her congratulations; Long Kirby had come; Tammas, Saunderson, Hoppin, Tupper, Londesley—all but Jim Mason; and now, elbowing through the press, came squire and parson.
“Well done, James! well done, indeed! Knew you'd win! told you so eh, eh!” Then facetiously to Owd Bob: “Knew you would, Robert, old man! Ought to Robert the Dev—musn't be a naughty boy—eh, eh!”
“The first time ever the Dale Cup's been won outright!” said the Parson, “and I daresay it never will again. And I think Kenmuir's the very fittest place for its final home, and a Gray Dog of Kenmuir for its winner.”
“Oh, by the by!” burst in the squire. “I've fixed the Manor dinner for to-day fortnight, James. Tell Saunderson and Tupper, will you? Want all the tenants there.” He disappeared into the crowd, but in a minute had fought his way back. “I'd forgotten something!” he shouted. “Tell your Maggie perhaps you'll have news for her after it eh! eh!” and he was gone again.
Last of all, James Moore was aware of a white, blotchy, grinning face at his elbow.
“I maun congratulate ye, Mr. Moore. Ye've beat us—you and the gentlemen—judges.”
“'Twas a close thing, M'Adam,” the other answered. “An' yo' made a gran' fight. In ma life I niver saw a finer turn than yours by the two flags yonder. I hope yo' bear no malice.”
“Malice! Me? Is it likely? Na, na. 'Do onto ivery man as he does onto you—and somethin' over,' that's my motter. I owe ye mony a good turn, which I'll pay ye yet. Na, na; there's nae good fechtin' agin fate—and the judges. Weel, I wush you well o' yer victory. Aiblins' twill be oor turn next.”
Then a rush, headed by Sam'l, roughly hustled the one away and bore the other off on its shoulders in boisterous triumph.