“So I was—so I will.”
“If ony's beat it should be ma Bob here tho' he nob'but thought he was doin' right. An' yo' were aff the path.”
The little man looked at his enemy, a sneer on his face.
“Ye canna thrash him for doin' what ye bid him. Set yer dog on me, if ye will, but dinna beat him when he does yer biddin'!”
“I did not set him on yo', as you know,” the Master replied warmly.
M'Adam shrugged his shoulders.
“I'll no argie wi' ye, James Moore,” he said. “I'll leave you and what ye call yer conscience to settle that. My business is not wi' you.—David!” turning to his son.
A stranger might well have mistaken the identity of the boy's father. For he stood now, holding the Master's arm; while a few paces above them was the little man, pale but determined, the expression on his face betraying his consciousness of the irony of the situation.
“Will ye come hame wi' me and have it noo, or stop wi' him and wait till ye get it?” he asked the boy.
“M'Adam, I'd like yo' to—”