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."
A week later the little man called at Kenmuir. As he entered the yard, David was standing outside the kitchen window, looking very glum and miserable. On seeing his father, however, the boy started forward, all alert.
"What d'yo' want here?" he cried roughly.
"Same as you, dear lad," the little man giggled, advancing. "I come on a visit."
"Your visits to Kenmuir are usually paid by night, so I've heard," David sneered.
"So they dinna allow ye indoors wi' the Cup," he laughed. "They know yer little ways then, David."
"Nay, I'm not wanted in there," David answered bitterly, but not so loud that his father could hear. Maggie within the kitchen heard, however, but paid no heed; for her heart was hard against the boy, who of late, though he never addressed her, had made himself as unpleasant in a thousand little ways as only David M'Adam could.
At that moment the Master came stalking into the yard, Owd Bob preceding him; and as the old dog recognized his visitor he bristled involuntarily.
At the sight of the Master M'Adam hurried forward.
"I did but come to ask after the tyke," he said, "Is he gettin' over his lameness?"
James Moore looked surprised; then his stern face relaxed into a cordial smile. Such generous anxiety as to the welfare of Red Wull's rival was a wholly new characteristic in the little man.
"I tak' it kind in yo', M'Adam," he said, "to come and inquire."
"Is the thorn oot?" asked the little man with eager interest, shooting his head forward to stare closely at the other.
"It came oot last night wi' the poulticin'," the Master answered, returning the other's gaze, calm and steady.
"I'm glad o' that," said the little man, still staring. But his yellow, grinning face said as plain words, "What a liar ye are, James Moore."
The days passed on. His father's taunts and gibes, always becoming more bitter, drove David almost to distraction.
He longed to make it up with Maggie; he longed for that tender sympathy which the girl had always extended to him when his troubles with his father were heavy on him. The quarrel had lasted for months now, and he was well weary of it, and utterly ashamed. For, at least, he had the good grace to acknowledge that no one was to blame but himself; and that it had been fostered solely by his ugly pride.