“Shan't! Wullie, keep him aff.” Which the great dog proceeded to do amid the laughter of the onlookers.
Among the last, James Moore was borne past the little man. At sight of him, M'Adam's face assumed an expression of intense concern.
“Man, Moore!” he cried, peering forward as though in alarm; “man, Moore, ye're green—positeevely verdant. Are ye in pain?” Then, catching sight of Owd Bob, he started back in affected horror.
“And, ma certes! so's yer dog! Yer dog as was gray is green. Oh, guid life! “—and he made as though about to fall fainting to the ground.
Then, in bantering tones: “Ah, but ye shouldna covet ——”
“He'll ha' no need to covet it long, I can tell yo',” interposed Tammas's shrill accents.
“And why for no?”
“Becos next year he'll win it fra yo'. Oor Bob'll win it, little mon. Why? thot's why.”
The retort was greeted with a yell of applause from the sprinkling of Dalesmen in the crowd.
But M'Adam swaggered away into the tent, his head up, the Cup beneath his arm, and Red Wull guarding his rear.