David was out of bed and standing up in his night-shirt. He looked at his father contemptuously.
“I ha' bin at Kenmuir. I'll not lie for yo' or your likes,” he said proudly.
The little man shrugged his shoulders.
“'Tell a lee and stick to it,' is my rule, and a good one, too, in honest England. I for one 'll no think ony the worse o' ye if yer memory plays yer false.”
“D'yo' think I care a kick what yo' think o' me?” the boy asked brutally. “Nay; there's 'nough liars in this fam'ly wi'oot me.”
The candle trembled and was still again.
“A lickin' or a lie—tak' yer choice!”
The boy looked scornfully down on his father. Standing on his naked feet, he already towered half a head above the other and was twice the man.
“D'yo' think I'm fear'd o' a thrashin' fra yo'? Goo' gracious me!” he sneered. “Why, I'd as lief let owd Grammer Maddox lick me, for all I care.”
A reference to his physical insufficiencies fired the little man as surely as a lighted match powder.