“They dursen't Wullie, not a man of them a'!” he cries. “They're one—two—three—four—eleven to one, Wullie, and yet they dursen't. Eleven of them, and every man a coward! Long Kirby—Thornton—Tupper—Todd—Hoppin—Ross—Burton—and the rest, and not one but's a bigger man nor me, and yet—Weel, we might ha' kent it. We should ha' kent Englishmen by noo. They're aye the same and aye have bin. They tell lies, black lies—”
Tammas is again half out his chair and, only forcibly restrained by the men on either hand.
“—and then they ha' na the courage to stan' by 'em. Ye're English, ivery man o' ye, to yer marrow.”
The little man's voice rises as he speaks. He seizes the tankard from the table at his side.
“Englishmen!” he cries, waving it before him. “Here's a health! The best sheep-dog as iver penned a flock—Adam M'Adam's Red Wull!”
He pauses, the pewter at his lips, and looks at his audience with flashing eyes. There is no response from them.
“Wullie, here's to you!” he cries. “Luck and life to ye, ma trusty fier! Death and defeat to yer enemies!”
“'The warld's warld's wrack we share o't,
The warstle and the care o't;”
He raises the tankard and drains it to its uttermost dreg.
Then drawing himself up, he addresses his audience once more: