“Ay, ay, Mrs. Moore,” he began. Then breaking off, and looking about him—“Where's ma Wullie?” he cried excitedly. “James Moore!” whipping round on the Master, “ma Wullie's gone—gone, I say!”
Elizabeth Moore turned away indignantly. “I do declar' he tak's more fash after yon little yaller beastie than iver he does after his own flesh,” she muttered.
“Wullie, ma we doggie! Wullie, where are ye? James Moore, he's gone—ma Wullie's gone!” cried the little man, running about the yard, searching everywhere.
“Cannot 'a' gotten far,” said the Master, reassuringly, looking about him.
“Niver no tellin',” said Sam'l, appearing on the scene, pig-bucket in hand. “I misdoot yo'll iver see your dog agin, mister.” He turned sorrowfully to M'Adam.
That little man, all dishevelled, and with the perspiration standing on his face, came hurrying out of the cow-shed and danced up to the Master.
“It's robbed I am—robbed, I tell ye!” he cried recklessly. “Ma wee Wull's bin stolen while I was ben your hoose, James Moore!”
“Yo' munna say that, ma mon. No robbin' at Kenmuir,” the Master answered sternly.
“Then where is he? It's for you to say.”
“I've ma own idee, I 'aye,” Sam'l announced opportunely, pig-bucket uplifted.