This was a knock-down blow from which David could not come up smiling. He raked the ashes of the fire smouldering within him, and smothered it. He had to let off the smoke by breathing hard.
His father looked at him and said, "Ye'r namesake says, 'he puffeth at them.' My advice is keep ye'r breath to cool ye'r porridge."
David was about to reply, but a warning touch, under the table, from his mother's foot, made him pause.
A piercing scream was heard outside, and a rushing of feet. The old man looked over his spectacles towards the door in momentary fright. David stood up waiting. Mrs. McKeel said, in a low voice, "Papa! what's that?"
They had not long to wait. A man bounded over the low fence which enclosed the verandah, then ran to the door and opened it with a loud bang. It was Lanky Tim. His eyes were starting from their sockets. He had no hat. His hair hung in a dishevelled mass over his forehead, like an inverted last year's nest. He had the look of a madman. He sank on the sofa and moaned.
"What is the maiter wi' ye, Lanky?" said old McKeel, now thoroughly alarmed.
"I have been bitten by a snake," groaned Lanky, through his set teeth.
"Ma sang!" said McKeel, "ye've come to the richt shop. Whaur's the bite?"
"Here," said Lanky, pointing to the calf of his left leg. Then he curved his body like a bent bow, and made the most hideous grimaces, lapsing into an idiotic stare.