“What d'yo' want?”
The little man looked from him to the picture in his hand.
“Help me, Flora—he'll no,” he prayed. Then raising his eyes, he began: “I'd like to say—I've bin thinkin'—I think I should tell ye—it's no an easy thing for a man to say—”
He broke off short. The self-imposed task was almost more than he could accomplish.
He looked appealingly at David. But there was no glimmer of understanding in that white, set countenance.
“O God, it's maist mair than I can do!” the little man muttered; and the perspiration stood upon his forehead. Again he began: “David, after I saw ye this afternoon steppin' doon the hill—” Again he paused. His glance rested unconsciously upon the coat. David mistook the look; mistook the dimness in his father's eyes; mistook the tremor in his voice.
“Here 'tis! tak' yo' coat!” he cried passionately; and, tearing it off, flung it down at his father's feet. “Tak' it—and—-and—curse yo'.”
He banged out of the room and ran upstairs; and, locking himself in, threw himself on to his bed and sobbed.
Red Wull made a movement to fly at the retreating figure; then turned to his master, his stump-tail vibrating with pleasure. But little M'Adam was looking at the wet coat now lying in a wet bundle at his feet.
“Curse ye,” he repeated softly. “Curse ye—ye heard him. Wullie?”