"Something bad, you may be sure, to cause dad to parade in that fashion. I expect the blacks have been performing. They madden father at times by their 'want o' intellect,' as he calls it."
"I'll—I'll cut the livers out o' them, the sneakin' hounds! Rot 'em, I'll pizen every faither's son o' the dirty vermin!"
"Oh, father!" cried Jessie, "you surely are not going to poison the poor things?"
"Pizen 'em, that am I! Pizen's ower guid for them, thieving brutes that they are! 'Puir things,' as you ca' the wretches," continued he sarcastically, "I'll hae the life o' the hale o' them, if it tak's a' the pizen in Tareela!" barked the exasperated man.
"Then you're no father of mine!" blazed out Jessie. "What have the poor boys done that you should threaten such dreadful——"
"W-h-a-t!"
"Why, poor Willy and Jacky: what have they done that you should——"
"What on earth is the lassie haverin' aboot?" roared Mr. M'Intyre to Maggie.
"The blacks, father. Didn't you say that you were going to poison them? But I don't believe it for a——"
"The blacks! Wha's talkin' o' blacks? It's the reds, the blessed dingoes, wha've been playin' havoc wi' the calves. The blacks? Ma certie!" continued he, as the humour of the situation seized him, forcing a smile. Turning to his daughter, he exclaimed, "Ye're a fine bairn, I maun say, to be accusin' yer ain faither o' black murder!"