“First of a' ye'll ha' to beat Adam M'Adam and his Red Wull!” he cried back proudly.
Chapter XI. OOR BOB
M'ADAM'S pride in the great Cup that now graced his kitchen was supreme. It stood alone in the very centre of the mantelpiece, just below the old bell-mouthed blunderbuss that hung upon the wall. The only ornament in the bare room, it shone out in its silvery chastity like the moon in a gloomy sky.
For once the little man was content. Since his mother's death David had never known such peace. It was not that his father became actively kind; rather that he forgot to be actively unkind.
“Not as I care a brazen button one way or t'ither,” the boy informed Maggie.
“Then yo' should,” that proper little person replied.
M'Adam was, indeed, a changed being. He forgot to curse James Moore; he forgot to sneer at Owd Bob; he rarely visited the Sylvester Arms, to the detriment of Jem Burton's pocket and temper; and he was never drunk.
“Soaks 'isseif at home, instead,” suggested Tammas, the prejudiced. But the accusation was untrue.
“Too drunk to git so far,” said Long Kirby, kindly man.