“'Tis a pretty pair, Master, surely,” she said softly to her husband, who came up at the moment.
“Ay, he'll be a fine lad if his fether'll let him,” the tall man answered.
“Tis a shame Mr. M'Adam should lead him such a life,” the woman continued indignantly. She laid a hand on her husband's arm, and looked up at him coaxingly.
“Could yo' not say summat to un, Master, think 'ee? Happen he'd 'tend to you,” she pleaded. For Mrs. Moore imagined that there could be no one but would gladly heed what James Moore, Master of Kenmuir, might say to him. “He's not a bad un at bottom, I do believe,” she continued. “He never took on so till his missus died. Eh, but he was main fond o' her.”
Her husband shook his head “Nay, mother,” he said “'Twould nob' but mak' it worse for t' lad. M'Adam'd listen to no one, let alone me.” And, indeed, he was right; for the tenant of the Grange made no secret of his animosity for his straight-going, straight-speaking neighbor.
Owd Bob, in the mean time, had escorted the children to the larch-copse bordering on the lane which leads to the village. Now he crept stealthily back to the yard, and established himself behind the water-butt.
How he played and how he laughed; how he teased old Whitecap till that gray gander all but expired of apoplexy and impotence; how he ran the roan bull-calf, and aroused the bitter wrath of a portly sow, mother of many, is of no account.
At last, in the midst of his merry mischief-making, a stern voice arrested him.
“Bob, lad, I see 'tis time we larned you yo' letters.”