, never owned defeat; never turned back; never failed in a thing
attempted.

In the following spring, Mr. Tinkerton, the squire's agent, declared
that James Moore and Adam M'Adam--Owd Bob, rather, and Red Wull--had
lost between them fewer sheep than any single farmer on the whole March
Mere Estate--a proud record.

Of the two, many a tale was told that winter. They were invincible,
incomparable; worthy antagonists.

It was Owd Bob who, when he could not drive the band of Black Faces over
the narrow Razorback which led to safety, induced them to _follow_ him
across that ten-inch death-track, one by one, like children behind
their mistress. It was Red Wull who was seen coming down the precipitous
Saddler's How, shouldering up that grand old gentleman, King o' the
Dale, whose leg was broken.

The gray dog it was who found Cyril Gilbraith by the White Stones, with
a cigarette and a sprained ankle, on the night the whole village was out
with lanterns searching for the well-loved young scapegrace. It was the
Tailless Tyke and his master who one bitter evening came upon little
Mrs. Burton, lying in a huddle beneath the lea of the fast-whitening
Druid's Pillar with her latest baby on her breast. It was little M'Adam
who took off his coat and wrapped the child in it; little M'Adam who
unwound his plaid, threw it like a breastband across the dog's great
chest, and tied the ends round the weary woman's waist. Red Wull it was
who dragged her back to the Sylvester Arms and life, straining like a
giant through the snow, while his master staggered behind with the babe
in his arms. When they reached the inn it was M'Adam who, with a smile
on his face, told the landlord what he thought of him for sending _his_
wife across the Marches on such a day and on his errand. To which: "I'd
a cauld," pleaded honest Jem.

For days together David could not cross the Stony Bottom to Kenmuir.
His enforced confinement to the Grange led, however, to no more frequent
collisions than usual with his father. For M'Adam and Red Wull were out,
at all hours, in all weathers, night and day, toiling at their work of
salvation.

At last, one afternoon, David managed to cross the Bottom at a point
where a fallen thorn-tree gave him a bridge over the soft snow. He
stayed but a little while at Kenmuir, yet when he started for home it
was snowing again.

By the time he had crossed the ice-draped bridge over the Wastrel, a
blizzard was raging. The wind roare