lent the services of his herring-gutted, herring-hearted, greyhound
lurcher, Monkey. But before they had well topped Braithwaite
Brow, which leads from the village on to the marches, M'Adam
was standing in the track with a rock in his hand, a smile on his
face, and the tenderest blandishments in his voice as he coaxed the
dog to him. But Master Monkey knew too much for that. However,
after gambolling a while longer in the middle of the flock, a
boulder, better aimed than its predecessors, smote him on the
hinder parts and sent him back to the Sylvester Arms, with a sore
tail and a subdued heart.

For the rest, M'Adam would never have won over the
sheep-infested marches alone with his convoy had it not been for
the help of old Saunderson and Shep, who caught him on the way
and aided him.

It was in a very wrathful mood that on his way home he turned into
the Dalesman's Daughter in Silverdale.

The only occupants of the tap-room, as he entered, were Teddy
Boistock, the publican, Jim Mason, with the faithful Betsy beneath
his chair and the post-bags flung into the corner, and one
long-limbed, drover-like man--a stranger.

"And he coom up to Mr. Moore," Teddy was saying, "and says he,
'I'll gie ye twal' pun for yon gray dog o' yourn.' 'Ah,' says Moore,
'yo' may gie me twal' hunner'd and yet you'll not get ma Bob.'--Eh,
Jim?"

"And he did thot," corroborated Jim. " 'Twal' hunner'd,' says he."