“Yon's a good lad,” said the Master half to himself.
“Yes,” the parson replied; “I always thought there was good in the boy, if only his father'd give him a chance. And look at the way Owd Bob there follows him. There's not another soul outside Kenmuir he'd do that for.”
“Ay, sir,” said the Master. “Bob knows a mon when he sees one.”
“He does,” acquiesced the other. “And by the by, James, the talk in the village is that you've settled not to run him for the Cup. Is, that so?”
The Master nodded.
“It is, sir. They're all mad I should, but I mun cross 'em. They say he's reached his prime—and so he has o' his body, but not o' his brain. And a sheep-dog—unlike other dogs—is not at his best till his brain is at its best—and that takes a while developin', same as in a mon, I reck'n.”
“Well, well,” said the parson, pulling out a favorite phrase, “waiting's winning—waiting's winning.”
David slipped up into his room and into bed unseen, he hoped. Alone with the darkness, he allowed himself the rare relief of tears; and at length fell asleep. He awoke to find his father standing at his bedside. The little man held a feeble dip-candle in his hand, which lit his sallow face in crude black and white. In the doorway, dimly outlined, was the great figure of Red Wull.
“Whaur ha' ye been the day?” the little man asked. Then, looking down on the white stained face beneath him, he added hurriedly: “If ye like to lie, I'll believe ye.”