' know well, I could no
more hit yo' than I could a woman. Why yo've got this down on me yo' ken
best. I niver did yo' or ony ither mon a harm. As to the Cup, I've got
it and I'm goin' to do ma best to keep it--it's for yo' to win it from
me if yo' can o' Thursday. As for what yo' say o' David, yo' know it's a
lie. And as for what yo're drivin' at wi' yer hints and mysteries, I've
no more idee than a babe unborn. Noo I'm goin' to lock yo' up, yo're not
safe abroad. I'm thinkin' I'll ha' to hand ye o'er to the p'lice."

With the help of Sam'l he half dragged, half supported the
stunned little man across the yard; and shoved him into a tiny
semi-subterraneous room, used for the storage of coal, at the end of the
farm-buildings.

"Yo' think it over that side, ma lad," called the Master grimly, as he
turned the key, "and I will this." And with that he retired to bed.

* * * * *

Early in the morning he went to release his prisoner. But he was a
minute too late. For scuttling down the slope and away was a little
black-begrimed, tottering figure with white hair blowing in the wind.
The little man had broken away a wooden hatchment which covered a
manhole in the wall of his prison-house, squeezed his small body
through, and so escaped.

"Happen it's as well," thought the Master, watching the flying figure.
Then, "Hi, Bob, lad!" he called; for the gray dog, ears back, tail
streaming, was hurling down the slope after the fugitive.

On the bridge M'Adam turned, and, seeing his pursuer hot upon him,
screamed, missed his footing, and fell with a loud splash into the
stream--almost in that identical spot into which, years before, he had
plunged voluntarily to save Red Wull.

On the bridge Owd Bob halted and looked down at the man struggling in
the water below. He made a half move as though to leap in to the rescue
of his enemy; then, seeing it was unnecessary, turned and trotted back
to his master.

"Yo' nob'but served him right, I'm thinkin'," said the Master. "Like
as not he came here wi' the intent to mak' an end to yo.' Well, after
Thursday, I pray God we'll ha' peace. It's gettin' above a joke." The
two turned back into the yard.

But down below them, along the edge of the stream, for the second time
in this story, a little dripping figure was tottering homeward. The
little man was crying--the hot tears mingling on his cheeks with
the undried waters of the Wastrel--crying with rage, mor