The little man put the Cup back on its pedestal with hurried hands. The handkerchief dropped unconsidered to the floor; he turned and sprang furiously at the boy, who stood against the wall, still smiling; and, seizing him by the collar of his coat, shook him to and fro with fiery energy.
“So ye're hopin', prayin', nae doot, that James Moore—curse him!—will win ma Cup awa' from me, yer ain dad. I wonder ye're no 'shamed to crass ma door! Ye live on me; ye suck ma blood, ye foul-mouthed leech. Wullie and me brak' oorsel's to keep ye in hoose and hame—and what's yer gratitude? Ye plot to rob us of oor rights.”
He dropped the boy's coat and stood back.
“No rights about it,” said David, still keeping his temper.
“If I win is it no ma right as muckle as ony Englishman's?”
Red Wull, who had heard the rising voices, came trotting in, scowled at David, and took his stand beside his master.
“Ah, if yo' win it,” said David, with significant emphasis on the conjunction.
“And wha's to beat us?”
David looked at his father in well-affected surprise.
“I tell yo' Owd Bob's rinin',” he answered.