The little man was trembling slightly; his face was still hot from his exertions; and as he listened to the ovation accorded to his conqueror, there was a piteous set grin upon his face. In front stood the defeated dog, his lips wrinkling and hackles rising, as he, too, saw and heard and understood.
“It's a gran' thing to ha' a dutiful son. Wullie,” the little man whispered, watching David's waving figure. “He's happy—and so are they a'—not sae much that James Moore has won, as that you and I are beat.”
Then, breaking down for a moment:
“Eh, Wullie, Wullie! They're all agin us. It's you and I alane, lad.”
Again, seeing the squire followed by Parson Leggy, Viscount Birdsaye, and others of the gentry, forcing their way through the press to shake hands with the victor, he continued:
“It's good to be in wi' the quality, Wullie. Niver mak' a friend of a man beneath ye in rank, nor an enemy of a man aboon ye: that's a soond principle, Wullie, if ye'd get on in honest England.”
He stood there, alone with his dog, watching the crowd on the far slope as it surged upward in the direction of the committee tent. Only when the black mass had packed itself in solid phalanges about that ring, inside which, just a year ago, he had stood in very different circumstances, and was at length still, a wintry smile played for a moment about his lips. He laughed a mirthless laugh.
“Bide a wee, Wullie—he! he! Bide a wee.
'The best-laid schemes o' mice and men
Gang aft agley.'”
As he spoke, there came down to him, above the tumult, a faint cry of mingled surprise and anger. The cheering ceased abruptly. There was silence; then there burst on the stillness a hurricane of indignation.
The crowd surged forward, then turned. Every eye was directed across the stream. A hundred damning fingers pointed at the solitary figure there. There were hoarse yells of: “There he be Yon's him! What's he done wi' it? Thief! Throttle him!”