For a while father and son kept silence, watching one another like two fencers.
“'Twas you as took ma Cup?” asked the little man at last, leaning forward in his chair.
“'Twas me as took Mr. Moore's Cup,” the boy replied. “I thowt yo' mun ha' done wi' it—I found it all bashed upon the floor.”
“You took it—pit up to it, nae doot, by James Moore.”
David made a gesture of dissent.
“Ay, by James Moore,” his father continued. “He dursena come hissel' for his ill-gotten spoils, so he sent the son to rob the father. The coward!”—his whole frame shook with passion. “I'd ha' thocht James Moore'd ha' bin man enough to come himself for what he wanted. I see noo I did him a wrang—I misjudged him. I kent him a heepocrite; ain o' yer unco gudes; a man as looks one thing, says anither, and does a third; and noo I ken he's a coward. He's fear'd o' me, sic as I am, five foot twa in ma stockin's.” He rose from his chair and drew himself up to his full height.
“Mr. Moore had nowt to do wi' it,” David persisted.
“Ye're lyin'. James Moore pit ye to it.”
“I tell yo' he did not.”
“Ye'd ha' bin willin' enough wi'oot him, if ye'd thocht o't, I grant ye. But ye've no the wits. All there is o' ye has gane to mak' yer muckle body. Hooiver, that's no matter. I'll settle wi' James Moore anither time. I'll settle wi' you noo, David M'Adam.”