Bob, son of Battle . wo flags yonder. I hope yobear no malice. Malice! Me? Is it likely? Na, na. Doontoiveryman as he does onto you—and somethin over, thats mymotter. I owe ye mony a good turn, which Ill pay yeyet. Na na; theres nae good fechtin agin fate—and 254 THE SHEPHERDS TROPHY the judges. Weel, I wush you well o yer victory. Aiblinstwill be oor turn next. Then a rush, headed by Saml, roughly hustled the oneaway and bore the other off on its shoulders in boisteroustriumph. In giving the Cup away, Lady Eleanour made a prettierspeech than ever. Yet all the while she was haunted by awhite,
Bob, son of Battle . wo flags yonder. I hope yobear no malice. Malice! Me? Is it likely? Na, na. Doontoiveryman as he does onto you—and somethin over, thats mymotter. I owe ye mony a good turn, which Ill pay yeyet. Na na; theres nae good fechtin agin fate—and 254 THE SHEPHERDS TROPHY the judges. Weel, I wush you well o yer victory. Aiblinstwill be oor turn next. Then a rush, headed by Saml, roughly hustled the oneaway and bore the other off on its shoulders in boisteroustriumph. In giving the Cup away, Lady Eleanour made a prettierspeech than ever. Yet all the while she was haunted by awhite, miserable face; and all the while she was consciousof two black moving dots in the Murk Muir Pass oppositeher—solitary, desolate, a contrast to the huzzaing crowdaround. That is how the champion challenge Dale Cup, the world-known Shepherds Trophy, came to wander no more; wonoutright by the last of the Gray Dogs of Kenmuir—OwdBob. Why he was the last of the Gray Dogs is now to be told. PART VITHE BLACK KILLER.
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Keywords: ., bookcentury1800, bookdecade1890, bookidbobsonofbatt, bookyear1898
