Bob, son of Battle . , in a scream, with onefinger pointing to the great dog: And what o him? Whatll ma Wullie be doin thewhile? Tell me that, and haa care! Mind ye, he Stanshere hearkenin! And, indeed, the Tailless Tyke wasbristling for battle. David did not like the look of things; and edged awaytoward the door. Whatll Wullie be doin, ye chicken-hearted brock?his father cried. Tm? said the boy, now clcse on the door! Tm?he said, with a slow contempt that made the red bristlesquiver on the dogs neck. Lookin on, I should think—lookinon. What else is he fit for? I tell yooor Bob —Oor Bob! screa
Bob, son of Battle . , in a scream, with onefinger pointing to the great dog: And what o him? Whatll ma Wullie be doin thewhile? Tell me that, and haa care! Mind ye, he Stanshere hearkenin! And, indeed, the Tailless Tyke wasbristling for battle. David did not like the look of things; and edged awaytoward the door. Whatll Wullie be doin, ye chicken-hearted brock?his father cried. Tm? said the boy, now clcse on the door! Tm?he said, with a slow contempt that made the red bristlesquiver on the dogs neck. Lookin on, I should think—lookinon. What else is he fit for? I tell yooor Bob —Oor Bob! screamed the little man, darting forward. Oor Bob! Hark to him. Ill oor At him, Wullie! At him! But the Tailless Tyke needed no a harsh roar he sprang through the air, only tocrash against the closing door! The outer door banged, and in another second a mockingfinger tapped on the window-pane. Better luck to the two on yo next time! laughed ascornful voice; and David ran down the hill CHAPTER XII HOW RED WULL HELD THE BRIDGE FROM that hour the fire of MAdams jealousy-blazed into a mighty flame. The winning of theDale Cup had become a mania with him. He had won itonce, and would again despite all the Moores, all the GrayDogs, all the undutiful sons in existence; on that pointhe was resolved. The fact of his having tasted the joysof victory served to whet his desire. And now he felt hecould never be happy till the Cup was his own—wonoutright. At home David might barely enter the room. Therethe trophy stood. Ill not ha ye touch ma Cup, ye dirty-fingered, ill-begotten wastrel. Wullie and me won it—youd naughtto do wi it. Go you to James Moore and James Mooresdog. Ay, and shall I tak Cup wi me? or will ye bide tillits took from ye? 109 no HOW RED WULL HELD THE BRIDGE So the two went on; and every day the tension ap-proached nearer breaking-point. In the Dale the little man met with no hearts of the Dalesmen were to a man with Owd Bo
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