“I'll mind drink yer health, Mr. Thornton, never fear, though I ken ye'd prefaire to drink yer ain,” he said. At which the crowd giggled afresh; and a gray head at the back, which had hoped itself unrecognized, disappeared suddenly.
The little man stood there in the stillness, sourly smiling, his face still wet from his exertions; while the Tailless Tyke at his side fronted defiantly the serried ring of onlookers, a white fence of teeth faintly visible between his lips.
Lady Eleanour looked uneasy. Usually the lucky winner was unable to hear her little speech, as she gave the Cup away, so deafening was the applause. Now there was utter silence. She glanced up at the crowd, but there was no response to her unspoken appeal in that forest of hostile faces. And her gentle heart bled for the forlorn little man before her. To make it up she smiled on him so sweetly as to more than compensate him.
“I'm sure you deserve your success, Mr. M'Adam,” she said. “You and Red Wull there worked splendidly—everybody says so.”
“I've heard naethin' o't,” the little man answered dryly. At which some one in the crowd sniggered.
“And we all know what a grand dog he is; though”—with a reproving smile as she glanced at Red Wull's square, truncated stern—“he's not very polite.”
“His heart is good, your Leddyship, if his manners are not,” M'Adam answered, smiling.
“Liar!” came a loud voice in the silence. Lady Eleanour looked up, hot with indignation, and half rose from her seat. But M'Adam merely smiled.
“Wullie, turn and mak' yer bow to the leddy,” he said. “They'll no hurt us noo we're up; it's when we're doon they'll flock like corbies to the carrion.”
At that Red Wull walked up to Lady Eleanour, faintly wagging his tail; and she put her hand on his huge bull head and said, “Dear old Ugly!” at which the crowd cheered in earnest.