"James Moore and his dog agin" snapped M'Adam. "There's ithers
in the wand for bye them twa."

"Ay, but none like 'em," quoth loyal Jim.

"Na, thanks be. Gin there were there'd be no room for Adam
M'Adam in this 'melancholy vale.'

There was silence a moment, and then--:

"You're wantin' a tyke, bain't you, Mr. M'Adam?" Jim asked.

The little man hopped round all in a hurry.

"What!" he cried in well-affected eagerness, scanning the yellow
mongrel beneath the chair. "Betsy for sale! Guid life! Where's ma
check-book?" Whereat Jim, most easily snubbed of men,
collapsed.

M'Adam took off his dripping coat and crossed the room to hang it
on a chair-back. The stranger drover followed the meagre,
shirt-clad figure with shifty eyes; then he buried his face in his
mug.

M'Adam reached out a hand for the chair; and as he did so, a bomb
in yellow leapt out from beneath it, and, growling horribly, at
tacked his ankles.

"Curse ye!" cried M'Adam, starting back.