Bob, son of Battle . le crept across his face. He looked again atthe picture now lying crushed in his hand. Ye canna say I didna try; ye canna ask me to agin,he muttered, and slipped it into his pocket. Niver agin,Wullie; not if the Queen were to ask it. Then he went out into the gloom and drizzle, stillsmiling the same bitter smile. That night, when it came to closing-time at the SylvesterArms, Jem Burton found a little gray-haired figure lyingon the floor in the tap-room. At the little mans headlay a great dog. Yo beast! said the righteous publican, regarding thefigure of his best customer w
Bob, son of Battle . le crept across his face. He looked again atthe picture now lying crushed in his hand. Ye canna say I didna try; ye canna ask me to agin,he muttered, and slipped it into his pocket. Niver agin,Wullie; not if the Queen were to ask it. Then he went out into the gloom and drizzle, stillsmiling the same bitter smile. That night, when it came to closing-time at the SylvesterArms, Jem Burton found a little gray-haired figure lyingon the floor in the tap-room. At the little mans headlay a great dog. Yo beast! said the righteous publican, regarding thefigure of his best customer with fine scorn. Then catchingsight of a photograph in the little mans hand: Oh, yore that sort, are yo, foxy ? he leered. Gie usa look at er, and he tried to disengage the picture fromthe others grasp. But at the attempt the great dog rose,bared his teeth, and assumed such a diabolical expressionthat the big landlord retreated hurriedly behind the bar. Two on ye! he shouted viciously, rattling his heels;beasts baith!. PART IIITHE SHEPHERDS TROPHY
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Keywords: ., bookcentury1800, bookdecade1890, bookidbobsonofbatt, bookyear1898
