The Master's eyes flashed dangerously. He recalled the many rumors he
had heard, and the attempt on the old dog early in the year.

"I canna think ony one would be coward enough to murder him," he said,
drawing himself up.

M'Adam leant forward. There was a nasty glitter in his eye, and his face
was all a-tremble.

"Ye'd no think ony one 'd be cooard enough to set the son to murder the
father. Yet some one did--set the lad on to 'sassinate me. He failed at
me, and next, I suppose, he'll try at Wullie!" There was a flush on
the sallow face, and a vindictive ring in the thin voice. "One way or
t'ither, fair or foul, Wullie or me, ain or baith, has got to go afore
Cup Day, eh, James Moore! eh?"

The Master put his hand on the latch of the gate, "That'll do, M'Adam,"
he said. "I'll stop to hear no more, else I might get angry wi' yo'. Noo
git off this gate, yo're trespassin' as 'tis."

He shook the gate. M'Adam tumbled off, and went sprawling into the sheep
clustered below. Picking himself up, he dashed on through the flock,
waving his arms, kicking fantastically, and scattering confusion
everywhere.

"Just wait till I'm thro' wi' 'em, will yo'?" shouted the Master, seeing
the danger.

It was a request which, according to the etiquette of shepherding, one
man was bound to grant another. But M'Adam rushed on regardless, dancing
and gesticulating. Save for the lightning vigilance of Owd Bob, the
flock must have broken.

"I think yo' might ha' waited!" remonstrated the Master, as the little
man burst his way through.

"Noo, I've forgot somethin'!" the other cried, and back he started as he
had gone.

It was more than human nature could tolerate.

"Bob, keep him off!"

A flash of teeth; a blaze of gray eyes; and the old dog had leapt
forward to oppose the little man's advance.

"Shift oot o' ma light!" cried he, striving to dash past.

"Hold him, lad!"

And hold him the old dog did, while his master opened the gate and put
the flock through, the opponents dodging in front of one another like
opposing three-quarter-backs at the Rugby game.

"Oot o' ma path, or I'll strike!" shouted the little man in a fury, as
the last sheep passed through the gate.

"I'd not," warned the Master.

"But I will!" yelled M'Adam; and, darting forward as the gate swung to,
struck furiously at his opponent.

He missed, and the gray dog charged at him like a mail-train.

"Hi! James Moore--" but over he went like a toppled