“I say you will,” retorted his brother.
“And I repeat I think it is unlikely.”
“Your brother Wallace knows what he’s talking about,” said Mr. Rendall.
“That’s it!” exclaimed Wynne, jumping to his feet; “he knows what he is talking about, and that is all he ever can or ever will know.”
“Will you sit down at table!” ordered Mr. Rendall. “I never saw such an exhibition.”
“It is terrible,” lamented Mrs. Rendall.
“You listen to what your elders have to say, and don’t talk so much yourself. Your brother Wallace is making thirty-five shillings a week.”
“O most wonderful Wallace!” cried Wynne. “Villon starved in a gaol and wrote exquisite verses, but he could not earn so much as brother Wallace.”
“Look here, young Wynne,” exclaimed his brother, “you had better shut up if you don’t want me to punch your head.”
“ ‘Scots wha hae wi’ Wallace bled,’ ” chanted Wynne irrepressibly.