He banged out of the room and ran upstairs; and, locking himself in, threw himself on to his bed and sobbed.
Red Wull made a movement to fly at the retreating figure; then turned to his master, his stump-tail vibrating with pleasure. But little M'Adam was looking at the wet coat now lying in a wet bundle at his feet.
"Curse ye," he repeated softly. "Curse ye --ye heard him. Wullie?"
A bitter smile crept across his face. He looked again at the picture now lying crushed in his hand.
"Ye canna say I didna try; ye canna ask me to agin," he muttered, and slipped it into his pocket. "Niver agin, Wullie; not if the Queen were to ask it."
Then he went out into the gloom and drizzle, still smiling the same bitter smile.
That night, when it came to closing-time at the Sylvester Arms, Jem Burton found a little gray-haired figure lying on the floor in the tap-room. At the little man's head lay a great dog.
"Yo' beast!" said the righteous publican, regarding the figure of his best customer with fine scorn. Then catching sight of a photograph in the little man's hand: