Bob Son of Battle | Page 6

but he was
main fond o' her."

Her husband shook his head "Nay, mother," he said "'Twould nob' but
mak' it worse for t' lad. M'Adam'd listen to no one, let alone me." And,
indeed, he was right; for the tenant of the Grange made no secret of his
animosity for his straight-going, straight-speaking neighbor.
Owd Bob, in the mean time, had escorted the children to the
larch-copse bordering on the lane which leads to the village. Now he
crept stealthily back to the yard, and established himself behind the
water-butt.
How he played and how he laughed; how he teased old Whitecap till
that gray gander all but expired of apoplexy and impotence; how he ran
the roan bull-calf, and aroused the bitter wrath of a portly sow, mother
of many, is of no account.
At last, in the midst of his merry mischief-making, a stern voice
arrested him.
"Bob, lad, I see 'tis time we lamed you yo' letters."
So the business of life began for that dog of whom the simple
farmer-folk of the Daleland still love to talk,--Bob, son of Battle, last of
the Gray Dogs of Kenmuir.
Chapter II.
A SON OF HAGAR
It is a lonely country, that about the Wastreldale.
Parson Leggy Hornbut will tell you that his is the smallest church in the
biggest parish north of the Derwent, and that his cure numbers more
square miles than parishioners. Of fells and ghylls it consists, of becks
and lakes; with here a scattered hamlet and there a solitary hill
sheep-farm. It is a country in which sheep are paramount; and every
other Dalesman is engaged in that profession which is as old as Abel.
And the talk of the men of the land is of wethers and gimmers, of
tup-hoggs, ewe tegs in wool, and other things which are but fearsome

names to you and me; and always of the doings or misdoings, the
intelligence or stupidity, of their adjutants, the sheep-dogs.
Of all the Daleland, the country from the Black Water to Grammoch
Pike is the wildest. Above the tiny stone-built village of Wastrel-- dale
the Muir Pike nods its massive head. Westward, the desolate Mere
Marches, froni which the Sylvesters' great estate derives its name, reach
away in mAe on mile of sheep infested, wind-swept moorland. On the
far side of the Marches is that twin dale where. flows the gentle Silver
Lea. And it is there in the paddocks at the back of the Dalesman's
Daughter, that, in the late summer months, the famous sheep-dog Trials
of the North are held. There that the battle for the Dale Cup, the
world-known Shepherds' Trophy, is fought out.
Past the little inn leads the turnpike road to the market-centre of the
district--Grammoch-town. At the bottom of the paddocks at the back of
the inn winds the Silver Lea. Just there a plank bridge crosses the
stream, and, beyond, the Murk Muir Pass. crawls up the sheer side of
the Scaur on to the Mere Marches.
At the head of the Pass, before it debouches. on to those lonely
sheep-walks which divide. the two dales, is that hollow, shuddering
with gloomy possibilities, aptly called the Devil's. Bowl. In its centre
the Lone Tarn, weirdly suggestive pool, lifts its still face to the sky. It
was beside that black, frozen water, across. whose cold surface the
storm was swirling in white snow-wraiths, that, many, many years ago
(not in this century), old Andrew Moore-came upon the mother of the
Gray Dogs of Kenmuir.
In the North, every one who has heard of the Muir Pike--and who has
not?--has heard. of the Gray Dogs of Kenmuir, every one who has
heard of the Shepherd's Trophy--and who has not?--knows their fame.
In that country of good dogs and jealous masters the pride of place has
long been held unchallenged. Whatever line may claim to follow the
Gray Dogs always lead the van. And there is a saying in the land:
"Faithfu' as the Moores and their tykes."
On the top dresser to the right of the fireplace in the kitchen of

Kenmuir lies the family Bible. At the end you will find a loose sheet--
the pedigree of the Gray Dogs; at the beginning, pasted on the inside,
an almost similar œheet, long since yellow with age--the family register
of the Moores of Kenmuir.
Running your eye down the loose leaf, once, twice, and again it will be
caught by a small red cross beneath a name, and under the cross the one
word "Cup." Lastly, opposite the name of Rex son of Rally, are two of
those proud, tell-tale marks. The cup referred to is the renowned Dale
Cup--Champion Challenge Dale Cup, open to the world. Had Rex won
it but once again the Shepherds' Trophy, which