“Bob, lad, coom in, I say!”
At that he swung round and marched slowly back, gallant as he had come, dignified still in his mortification.
And Red Wull threw back his head and bellowed a paean of victory—challenge, triumph, scorn, all blended in that bull-like, blood-chilling blare.
In the mean time, M'Adam and the secretary had concluded their business. It had been settled that the Cup was to be delivered over to James Moore not later than the following Saturday.
“Saturday, see! at the latest!” the secretary cried as he turned and trotted off.
“Mr. Trotter,” M'Adam called after him. “I'm sorry, but ye maun bide this side the Lea till I've reached the foot o' the Pass. Gin they gentlemen”—nodding toward the crowd—“should set hands on me, why—” and he shrugged his shoulders significantly. “Forbye, Wullie's keepin' the bridge.”
With that the little man strolled off leisurely; now dallying to pick a flower, now to wave a mocking hand at the furious mob, and so slowly on to the foot of the Muirk Muir Pass.
There he turned and whistled that shrill peculiar note.
“Wullie, Wullie, to me!” he called.