AN immense sensation this affair of the Scoop created in the Daleland. It spurred the Dalesmen into fresh endeavors. James Moore and M’Adam were examined and re-examined as to the minutest details of the matter. The whole country-side was placarded with huge bills offering reward for the capture of the criminal dead or alive. While the vigilance of the watchers was such that in a single week they bagged a donkey, an old woman, and two amateur detectives.

In Wastrel-dale the near escape of the Killer, the collision between James Moore and M’Adam, and Owd Bob’s unsuccess, who was not wont to fail, aroused intense excitement, with which was mingled a certain anxiety as to their favorite.

For when the Master had reached home that night, he had found the old dog already there; and he must have wrenched his foot in the pursuit or run a thorn into it, for he was very lame. Whereat, when it was reported at the Sylvester Arms, M’Adam winked at Red Wull and muttered, “Ah, forty foot is an ugly tumble.”

POSTSCRIPT

Adam M’Adam and his Red Wull lie buried together: one just within, the other just without, the consecrated pale.

The only mourners at the funeral were David, James Moore, Maggie, and a gray dog peering through the lych-gate.

During the service a carriage stopped at the churchyard, and a lady with a stately figure and a gentle face steeped out and came across the grass to pay a last tribute to the dead. And Lady Eleanour, as she joined the little group above the grave, seemed to notice a more than ususal solemnity in the parson’s voice as he intoned: “Earth to earth – ashes to ashes – dust to dust; in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life.”

* * * * * * * * * *

When you wander in the gray hill-country of the North, in the loneliest corner of that lonely land you may chance upon a low farm-house, lying in the shadow of the Muir Pike.

Entering, a tall man comes out to greet you – the Master of Kenmuir. His shoulders are bent now; the hair that was so dark is frosted; but the blue-gray eyes look you as proudly in the face as of yore.

And while the girl with the glory of yellow hair is preparing food for you – they are hospitable to afault, these Northerners – you will notice on the mantelpiece, standing solitary, a massive silver cup, dented.

That is the world-know Shepherd’s Trophy, won outright, as the old man will tell you, by Owd Bob, last and best of the Gray Dogs of Kenmuir. The last because he is the best; because once, for a long-drawn unit of time, James Moore had thought him to be th worst.

When at length you take your leave, the old man accompanies you to the top of the slope to point you your way.

“Yo’ cross the stream; over Langholm How, yonder; past the Bottom; andoop th’ hill on far side. Yo’ll come on th’ house o’ top. And happen yo’ll meet Th’ Owd Un on the road. Good-day to you, sir, good-day.”

So you go as he has bidden you; across the stream, skirting the how, over the gulf and up the hill again.

On the way, as the Master has foretold, you came upon an old gray dog, trotting soberly along. Th’ Owd Un, indeed, seems to spend the evening of his life going thus between Kenmuir and the Grange. The black muzzle is almost white now; the gait, formerly so smooth and strong, stiff and slow; venerable, indeed, is he of whom men still talk as the best sheep-dog in the North.

As he passes, he pauses to scan you. The noble head is high, and one foot raised; and you look into two big gray eyes such as you have never seen before – soft, a little dim, and infinitely sad.

That is Owd Bob o’ Kenmuir, of whom the tales are many as the flowers on the May. With him dies the last of the immortal line of the Gray Dogs of Kenmuir.

* * * * * * * * * *

You travel on up the hill, something pensive, and knock at the door of the house on the top.

A woman, comely with the inevitable comeliness of motherhood, opens to you. And nestling in her arms is a little boy with golden hair and happy face, like one of Correggio’s cherubs.

You ask the child his name. He kicks and crows, and looks up at his mother; and in the end lisps roguishly, as if it was the merriest joke in all this merry world, “Adum Mataddum.”