s favorite by
the neck.

M'Adam laughed softly.

"Wullie, Wullie, to me!" he cried. "The look o' you's enough for that
gentleman."

"If they get fightin' it'll no be Bob here I'll hit, I warn yo',
M'Adam," said the Master grimly.

"Gin ye sae muckle as touched Wullie d'ye ken what I'd do, James Moore?"
asked the little man very smoothly.

"Yes--sweer," the other replied, and strode out of the room amid a roar
of derisive laughter at M'Adam's expense.

Owd Bob had now attained wellnigh the perfection of his art. Parson
Leggy declared roundly that his like had not been seen since the days
of Rex son of Rally. Among the Dalesmen he was a heroic favorite, his
prowess and gentle ways winning him friends on every hand. But the point
that told most heavily for him was that in all things he was the very
antithesis of Red Wull.

Barely a man in the country-side but owed that ferocious savage a
grudge; not a man of them all who dared pay it. Once Long Kirby, full
of beer and valor, tried to settle his account. Coming on M'Adam and Red
Wull as he was driving into Grammoch-town, he leant over and with his
thong dealt the dog a terrible sword-like slash that raised an angry
ridge of red from hip to shoulder; and was twenty yards down the road
before the little man's shrill curse reached his ear, drowned in a
hideous bellow.

He stood up and lashed the colt, who, quick on his legs for a young un,
soon settled to his gallop. But, glancing over his shoulder, he saw a
hounding form behind, catching him as though he were walking. His face
turned sickly white; he screamed; he flogged; he looked back. Right
beneath the tail-board was the red devil in the dust; while racing a
furlong behind on the turnpike road was the mad figure of M'Adam.

The smith struck back and flogged forward. It was of no avail. With a
tiger-like bound the murderous brute leapt on the flying trap. At the
shock of the great body the colt was thrown violently on his side; Kirby
was tossed over the hedge; and Red Wull pinned beneath the debris.

M'Adam had time to rush up and save a tragedy.

"I've a mind to knife ye, Kirby," he panted, as he bandaged the smith's
broken head.

After that you may be sure the Dalesmen preferred to swallow insults
rather than to risk their lives; and their impotence only served to fan
their hatred to white heat.

The working methods of the antagonists were as contrasted as their
appearances. In a word, the one compelled