"'M'Adam's Wull'!" he read with unspeakable contempt, and put his great thumb across the name as though to wipe it out. "'M'Adam's Wull'! Goo' gracious sakes! P-hg-h-r-r! "--and he made a motion as though to spit upon the ground.
But a little shoulder was into his side, two small fists were beating at his chest, and a shrill voice was yelling: "Devil! devil! stan' awa'!"--and he was tumbled precipitately away from the mantelpiece, and brought up abruptly against the side-wall.
The precious Cup swayed on its ebony stand, the boy's hands, rudely withdrawn, almost overthrowing it. But the little man's first impulse, cursing and screaming though he was, was to steady it.
"'M'Adam's Wull'! I wish he was here to teach ye, ye snod-faced, ox-limbed profleegit!" he cried, standing in front of the Cup, his eyes blazing.
"Ay, 'M'Adam's Wull'! And why not 'M'Adam's Wull'? Ha' ye ony objections to the name?"
"I didn't know yo' was theer," said David, a thought sheepishly.
"I'd ha' thought it, though," muttered the boy.
Luckily, however, his father did not hear. He stretched his hands up tenderly for the Cup, lifted it down, and began reverently to polish the dimmed sides with his handkerchief.
"Ye're thinkin', nae doot," he cried, casting up a vicious glance at David, "that Wullie's no gude enough to ha' his name alangside o' they cursed Gray Dogs. Are ye no? Let's ha' the truth for aince--for a diversion."
"Reck'n he's good enough if there's none better," David replied dispassionately.
"And wha should there be better? Tell me that, ye muckle gowk."
"Eh, but that'd be long tellin', he said.
"And what wad ye mean by that?" his father cried.
"Nay; I was but thinkin' that Mr. Moore's Bob'll look gradely writ under yon." He pointed to the vacant space below Red Wull's name.
The little man put the Cup back on its pedestal with hurried hands. The handkerchief dropped unconsidered to the floor; he turned and sprang furiously at the boy, who stood against the wall, still smiling; and, seizing him by the collar of his coat, shook him to and fro with fiery energy.
"So ye're hopin', prayin', nae doot, that James Moore--curse him!--will win ma Cup awa' from me, yer ain dad. I wonder ye're no 'shamed to crass ma door! Ye live on me; ye suck ma blood, ye foul-mouthed leech. Wullie and me brak' oorsel's to keep ye in hoose and hame--and what's yer gratitude? Ye plot to rob us of oor rights."
