Then, in a great voice, moved to rare anger. "Oot o' this afore I do ye a hurt, ye meeserable spyin' creeturt" he roared. "Yo' mun wait. till dark cooms to hide yo', yo' coward, afore yo daur coom crawlin' aboot ma hoose, frightenin' the women-folk and up to yer devilments. If yo've owt to say to me, coom like a mon in the open day. Noo git aff wi' yo', afore I lay hands to yo'!"
He stood there in the dusk, tall and mighty, a terrible figure, one hand pointing to the gate, the other still grasping the gray dog.
The little man scuttled away in the halflight, and out of the yard.
On the plank-bridge he turned and shook his fist at the darkening house.
"Curse ye, James Moore!" he sobbed, "I'll be even wi' ye yet."
Chapter XV. DEATH ON THE MARCHES
ON the top of this there followed an attempt to poison Th' Owd Un. At least there was no other accounting for the affair.
In the dead of a long-remembered night James Moore was waked by a low moaning beneath his room. He leapt out of bed and ran to the window to see his favorite dragging about the moonlit yard, the dark head down, the proud tail for once lowered, the lithe limbs wooden, heavy, unnatural--altogether pitiful.