Bob, Son of Battle   By: Alfred Ollivant (1874-1927)

By Alfred Ollivant

CONTENTS

PART I THE COMING OF THE TAILLESS TYKE Chapter I. The Gray Dog Chapter II. A Son of Hagar Chapter III. Red Wull Chapter IV. First Blood

PART II THE LITTLE MAN Chapter V. A Man's Son Chapter VI. A Licking or a Lie Chapter VII. The White Winter Chapter VIII. M'Adam and His Coat

PART III THE SHEPHERDS' TROPHY Chapter IX. Rivals, Chapter X. Red Wull Wins Chapter XI. Oor Bob, Chapter XII. How Red Wull Held the Bridge Chapter XIII. The Face in the Frame

PART IV THE BLACK KILLER Chapter XIV. A Mad Man Chapter XV. Death on the Marches, Chapter XVI. The Black Killer Chapter XVII. A Mad Dog Chapter XVIII. How the Killer was Singed Chapter XIX. Lad and Lass Chapter XX. The Snapping of the String Chapter XXI. Horror of Darkness

PART V OWD BOB O' KENMUIR Chapter XXII. A Man and a Maid Chapter XXIII. Th' Owd Un Chapter XXIV. A Shot in the Night Chapter XXV. The Shepherds' Trophy.

PART VI THE BLACK KILLER Chapter XXVI. Red handed Chapter XXVII. For the Defence Chapter XXVIII. The Devil's Bowl Chapter XXIX. The Devil's Bowl Chapter XXX. The Tailless Tyke at Bay

Postscript

PART I THE COMING OF THE TAILLESS TYKE

Chapter I. THE GRAY DOG

THE sun stared brazenly down on a gray farmhouse lying, long and low in the shadow of the Muir Pike; on the ruins of peel tower and barmkyn, relics of the time of raids, it looked; on ranges of whitewashed outbuildings; on a goodly array of dark thatched ricks.

In the stack yard, behind the lengthy range of stables, two men were thatching. One lay sprawling on the crest of the rick, the other stood perched on a ladder at a lower level.

The latter, small, old, with shrewd nut brown countenance, was Tammas Thornton, who had served the Moores of Kenmuir for more than half a century. The other, on top of the stack, wrapped apparently in gloomy meditation, was Sam'l Todd. A solid Dales man, he, with huge hands and hairy arms; about his face an uncomely aureole of stiff, red hair; and on his features, deep seated, an expression of resolute melancholy.

"Ay, the Gray Dogs, bless 'em!" the old man was saying. "Yo' canna beat 'em not nohow. Known 'em ony time this sixty year, I have, and niver knew a bad un yet. Not as I say, mind ye, as any on 'em cooms up to Rex son o' Rally. Ah, he was a one, was Rex! We's never won Cup since his day."

"Nor niver shall agin, yo' may depend," said the other gloomily.

Tammas clucked irritably.

"G'long, Sam'! Todd!" he cried, "Yo' niver happy onless yo' making' yo'self miser'ble. I niver see sich a chap. Niver win agin? Why, oor young Bob he'll mak' a right un, I tell yo', and I should know. Not as what he'll touch Rex son o' Rally, mark ye! I'm niver saying' so, Sam'l Todd. Ah, he was a one, was Rex! I could tell yo' a tale or two o' Rex. I mind me hoo "

The big man interposed hurriedly.

"I've heard it afore, Tammas, I welly 'ave," he said.

Tammas paused and looked angrily up.

"Yo've heard it afore, have yo', Sam'l Todd?" he asked sharply. "And what have yo' heard afore?"

"Yo' stories, owd lad yo' stories o' Rex son o' Rally."

"Which on' em

"All on 'em, Tammas, all on 'em mony a time. I'm fair sick on 'em, Tammas, I welly am," he pleaded.

The old man gasped. He brought down his mallet with a vicious smack.

"I'll niver tell yo' a tale agin, Sam'l Todd, not if yo' was to go on yo' bended knees for't. Nay; it bain't no manner o' use talkin'. Niver agin, says I."

"I niver askt yo'," declared honest Sam'l.

"Nor it wouldna ha' bin no manner o' use if yo' had," said the other viciously. "I'll niver tell yo' a tale agin if I was to live to be a hunderd."