“And what if he is?” the other cried.
“Why, even yo' should know so much,” the boy sneered.
The little man could not fail to understand.
“So that's it!” he said. Then, in a scream, with one finger pointing to the great dog: “And what o' him? What'll ma Wullie be doin' the while? Tell me that, and ha' a care! Mind ye, he stan's here hearkenin'!” And, indeed, the Tailless Tyke was bristling for battle.
David did not like the look of things; and edged away toward the door.
“What'll Wullie be doin', ye chicken-hearted brock?” his father cried.
“Im?” said the boy, now close on the door. “Im!” he said, with a slow contempt that made the red bristles quiver on the dog's neck. “Lookin' on, I should think—lookin' on. What else is he fit for? I tell yo' oor Bob—”
“—'Oor Bob'!” screamed the little man darting forward. “'Oor Bob'! Hark to him. I'll 'oor—' At him, Wullie! at him!”
But the Tailless Tyke needed no encouragement. With a harsh roar he sprang through the air, only to crash against the closing door!
The outer door banged, and in another second a mocking finger tapped on the windowpane.