Bob Son of Battle | Page 7

many men have lived to
win, and died still striving after, would have come to rest forever in the
little gray house below the Pike.
It was not to be, however. Comparing the two sheets, you read beneath
the dog's name a date and a pathetic legend; and on the other sheet,
written in his son's boyish hand, beneath the name of Andrew Moore
the same date and the same legend.
From that day James Moore, then but a boy, was master of Kenmuir.
So past Grip and Rex and Rally, and a hundred others, until at the foot
of the page you come to that last name--Bob, son of Battle.
From the very first the young dog took t& his work in a manner to
amaze even James Moore. For a while he watched his mother, Meg, at
her business, and with that seemed to have mastered the essentials of
sheep tactics.
Rarely had such fiery ‚lan been seen on the sides of the Pike; and with
it the young dog combined a strange sobriety, an admirable patience,
that justified, indeed, the epithet. "Owd." Silent he worked, and resolute;
and even in those days had that famous trick of coaxing the sheep to do
his wishes;--blending, in short, as Tammas put it, the brains of a man
with the way of a woman.
Parson Leggy, who was reckoned the best judge of a sheep or
sheep-dog 'twixt Tyne and Tweed, summed him up in the one word

"Genius." And James Moore himself, cautious man, was more than
pleased.
In the village, the Dalesmen, who took a personal pride in the Gray
Dogs of Kenmuir, began to nod sage heads when "oor" Bob was
mentioned. Jim Mason, the postman, whose word went as far with the
villagers as Parson Leggy's with the gentry, reckoned he'd never seen a
young un as so took his fancy.
That winter it grew quite the recognized thing, when they had gathered
of a night round the fire in the Sylvester Arms, with Tammas in the
centre, old Jonas Maddox on his right, Rob Saunderson of the Holt on
the left, and the others radiating away toward the sides, for some one to
begin with:
"Well, and what o' oor Bob, Mr. Thornton?"
To which Tammas would always make reply:
"Oh, yo' ask Sam'l there. He'll tell yo' better'n me, "--and would
forthwith plunge, himself, into a yarn.
And the way in which, as the story proLeeded, Tupper of Swinsthwaite
winked at Ned Hoppin of Fellsgarth, and Long Kirby, the smith, poked
Jem Burton, the publican, in the ribs, and Sexton Ross said, "Ma word,
lad!" spoke more eloquently than many words.
One man only never joined in the chorus of admiration. Sitting always
alone in the background, little M'Adam would listen with an
incredulous grin on his sallow face.
"Oh, ma certes! The devil's in the dog! It's no cannie ava!" he would
continually exclaim, as Tammas told his tale.
In the Daleland you rarely see a stranger's face. Wandering in the wild
country about the twin dales at the time of this story, you might have
met Parson Leggy, striding along with a couple of varmint terriers at
his heels, and young Cyril Gilbraith, whom he was teaching to tie flies

and fear God, beside him; or Jim Mason, postman by profession,
poacher by predilection, honest man and sportsman by nature, hurrying
along with the mail-bags on his shoulder, a rabbit in his pocket, and
the-faithful Betsy a yard behind. Besides these you might have hit upon
a quiet shepherd and a wise-faced dog; Squire Sylvester, going his
rounds upon a sturdy cob; or, had you been lucky, sweet Lady Eleanour
bent upon some errand of mercy to one of the many tenants.
It was while the Squire's lady was driving through the village on a
visit* to Tammas's slobbering grandson--it was shortly after Billy
Thornton's advent into the world--that little M'Adam, standing in the
door of the Sylvester Arms, with a twig in his mouth and a sneer fading
from his lips, made his ever-memorable remark:
"Sail!" he said, speaking in low, earnest voice; " 'tis a muckle
wumman."
was this visit which figured in the Grammochtown Argus (local and
radical) under the heading of "Alleged Wholesale Corruption by Tory
Agents." And that is why, on the following market day, Herbert Trotter,
journalist, erstwhile gentleman, and Secretary of the Dale Trials, found
himself trying to swim in the public horsetrough.
"What? What be sayin', mon?" cried old Jonas, startled out of his usual
apathy.
M'Adam turned sharply on the old man.
"I said the wumman wears a muckle hat!" he snapped.
Blotted out as it was, the observation still remains--a tribute of honest
admiration. Doubtless the Recording Angel did not pass it by. That