“If yo' know sic a mighty heap,” he shouted, “happen you'll just tell me what yo' do know!”
M'Adam stopped stroking Red Wull's massive head, and looked up.
“Tell ye? Ay, wha should I tell if not ma dear David? Tell? Ay, I'll tell ye this”—with a sudden snarl of bitterness—“That you'd be the vairy last person I wad tell.”
Chapter XVII. A MAD DOG
DAVID and Maggie, meanwhile, were drifting further and further apart. He now thought the girl took too much upon herself; that this assumption of the woman and the mother was overdone. Once, on a Sunday, he caught her hearing Andrew his catechism. He watched the performance through a crack in the door, and listened, giggling, to her simple teaching. At length his merriment grew so boisterous that she looked up, saw him, and, straightway rising to her feet, crossed the room and shut the door; tendering her unspoken rebuke with such a sweet dignity that he slunk away for once decently ashamed. And the incident served to add point to his hostility.
Consequently he was seldom at Kenmuir, and more often at home, quarrelling with his father.
Since that day, two years before, when the boy had been an instrument in the taking of the Cup from him, father and son had been like two vessels charged with electricity, contact between which might result at any moment in a shock and a flash. This was the outcome not of a moment, but of years.
Of late the contest had raged markedly fierce; for M'Adam noticed his son's more frequent presence at home, and commented on the fact in his usual spirit of playful raillery.
“What's come to ye, David?” he asked one day. “Yer auld dad's head is nigh turned wi' yer condescension. Is James Moore feared ye'll steal the Cup fra him, as ye stole it from me, that he'll not ha' ye at Kenmuir? or what is it?”