“Better luck to the two on yo' next time!” laughed a scornful voice; and David ran down the hill toward Kenmuir.
Chapter XII. HOW RED WULL HELD THE BRIDGE
FROM that hour the fire of M'Adam's jealousy blazed into a mighty flame. The winning of the Dale Cup had become a mania with him. He had won it once, and would again despite all the Moores, all the Gray Dogs, all the undutiful sons in existence; on that point he was resolved. The fact of his having tasted the joys of victory served to whet his desire. And now he felt he could never be happy till the Cup was his own—won outright.
At home David might barely enter the room There the trophy stood.
“I'll not ha' ye touch ma Cup, ye dirty-fingered, ill-begotten wastrel. Wullie and me won it—you'd naught to do wi' it. Go you to James Moore and James Moore's dog.”
“Ay, and shall I tak' Cup wi' me? or will ye bide till it's took from ye?”
So the two went on; and every day the tension approached nearer breaking-point.
In the Dale the little man met with no sympathy. The hearts of the Dalesmen were to a man with Owd Bob and his master.
Whereas once at the Sylvester Arms his shrill, ill tongue had been rarely still, now he maintained a sullen silence; Jem Burton, at least, had no cause of complaint. Crouched away in a corner, with Red Wull beside him, the little man would sit watching and listening as the Dalesmen talked of Owd Bob's doings, his staunchness, sagacity, and coming victory.