“Noo, I'm gaein' to gie ye the gran'est thrashin' ye iver dreamed of. Tak' aff yer coat!”
The boy obeyed, and stood up in his thin shirt, his face white and set as a statue's. Red Wull seated himself on his haunches close by, his ears pricked, licking his lips, all attention.
The little man suppled the great ash-plant in his hands and raised it. But the expression on the boy's face arrested his arm.
“Say ye're sorry and I'll let yer aff easy.”
“I'll not.”
“One mair chance—yer last! Say yer 'shamed o' yerself'!”
“I'm not.”
The little man brandished his cruel, white weapon, and Red Wull shifted a little to obtain a better view.
“Git on wi' it,” ordered David angrily.
The little man raised the stick again and—threw it into the farthest corner of the room.