“James Moore, as I live!” he cried, and advanced with both hands extended, as though welcoming a long-lost brother. “'Deed and it's a weary while sin' ye've honored ma puir hoose.” And, in fact, it was nigh twenty years. “I tak' it gey kind in ye to look in on a lonely auld man. Come ben and let's ha' a crack. James Moore kens weel hoo welcome he aye is in ma bit biggin'.”
The Master ignored the greeting.
“One o' ma sheep been killed back o' t' Dyke,” he announced shortly, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.
“The Killer?”
“The Killer.”
The cordiality beaming in every wrinkle of the little man's face was absorbed in a wondering interest; and that again gave place to sorrowful sympathy.
“Dear, dear! it's come to that, has it—at last?” he said gently, and his eyes wandered to the gray dog and dwelt mournfully upon him. “Man, I'm sorry—I canna tell ye I'm surprised. Masel', I kent it all alang. But gin Adam M'Adam had tell't ye, no ha' believed him. Weel, weel, he's lived his life, gin ony dog iver did; and noo he maun gang where he's sent a many before him. Puir mon! puir tyke!” He heaved a sigh, profoundly melancholy, tenderly sympathetic. Then, brightening up a little: “Ye'll ha' come for the gun?”
James Moore listened to this harangue at first puzzled. Then he caught the other's meaning, and his eyes flashed.
“Ye fool, M'Adam! did ye hear iver tell o' a sheep-dog worryin' his master's sheep?”
The little man was smiling and suave again now, rubbing his hands softly together.