Bob Son of Battle [16]
all attention.
The little man suppled the great ash-plant in his hands and raised it. But the expression on the boy's face arrested his arm.
"Say ye're sorry and I'll let yer a.ff easy."
"I'll not."
"One mair chance--yer last! Say yer 'shamed o' yerself'!"
"I'm not."
The little man brandished his cruel, white weapon, and Red Wull shifted a little to obtain a better view.
"Git on wi' it," ordered David angrily.
The little man raised the stick again and-- threw it into the farthest corner of the room.
It fell with a rattle on the floor, and M'Adam turned away.
"Ye're the pitifulest son iver a man had," he cried brokenly. "Gin a man's son dinna haud to him, wha can he expect to?--no one. Ye're ondootiful, ye're disrespectfu', ye're maist ilka thing ye shouldna be; there's but ae thing I thocht ye were not--a coward. And as to that, ye've no the pluck to sa)ye're sorry when, God knows, ye might be. I canna thrash ye this day. But ye shall gae nae mair to school. I send ye there to learn. Ye'll not learn--ye've learnt naethin' except disobedience to me-ye shall stop at hame and work."
His father's rare emotion, his broken voice and working face, moved David as all the stripes and jeers had failed to do. His conscience smote him. For the first time in his life it dimly dawned on him that, perhaps, his father, too, had some ground for complaint; that, perhaps, he was not a good son.
He half turned.
"Feyther--"
"Git oot o' ma sight!" M'Adam cried.
And the boy turned and went.
Chapter VI. A LICKING OR A LIE
THENCEFORWARD David buckled down to work at home, and in one point only father and son resembled--industry. A drunkard M'Adam was, but a drone, no.
The boy worked at the Grange with tireless, indomitable energy; yet he could never satisfy his father.
The little man would stand, a sneer on his face and his thin lips contemptuously curled, and flout the lad's brave labors.
Is he no a gran' worker, Wullie? 'Tis a pleasure to watch him, his hands in his pockets, his eyes turned heavenward!" as the boy snatched a hard-earned moment's rest. "You and I, Wullie, we'll brak' oorsel's slavin' for him while he looks on and laffs."
And so on, the whole day through, week in, week out; till he sickened with weariness of it all.
In his darkest hours David thought sometimes to run away. He was miserably alone on the cold bosom of the world. The very fact that he was the son of his father isolated him in the Daleland. Naturally of a reserved disposition, he had no single friend outside Kenmuir. And it was only the thought of his friends there that witheld him. He could not bring himself to part from them; they were all he had in the world.
So he worked on at the Grange, miserably, doggedly, taking blows and abuse alike in burning silence. But every evening, when work was ended, he stepped off to his other home beyond the Stony Bottom. And on Sundays and holidays--for of these latter he took, unasking, what he knew to be his due-- all day long, from cock-crowing to the going down of the sun, he would pass at Kenmuir. In this one matter the hoy was invincibly stubborn. Nothing his father could say or do sufficed to break him of the habit. He endured everything with white-lipped, silent dogged-ness, and still held on his way.
Once past the Stony Bottom, he threw his troubles behind him with a courage that did him honor. Of all the people at Kenmuir two only ever dreamed the whole depth of his unhappiness, and that not through David. James Moore suspected something of it all, for he knew more of M'Adam than did the others. While Owd Bob knew it as did no one else. He could tell it from the touch of the boy's hand on his head; and the story was writ large upon his face for a dog to read. And he would follow the lad about with a compassion in his sad gray eyes greater than words.
David might well compare his gray friend at Kenmuir with that other at the Grange.
The Tailless Tyke had now grown into an immense dog, heavy of muscle and huge of bone. A great bull head; undershot
The little man suppled the great ash-plant in his hands and raised it. But the expression on the boy's face arrested his arm.
"Say ye're sorry and I'll let yer a.ff easy."
"I'll not."
"One mair chance--yer last! Say yer 'shamed o' yerself'!"
"I'm not."
The little man brandished his cruel, white weapon, and Red Wull shifted a little to obtain a better view.
"Git on wi' it," ordered David angrily.
The little man raised the stick again and-- threw it into the farthest corner of the room.
It fell with a rattle on the floor, and M'Adam turned away.
"Ye're the pitifulest son iver a man had," he cried brokenly. "Gin a man's son dinna haud to him, wha can he expect to?--no one. Ye're ondootiful, ye're disrespectfu', ye're maist ilka thing ye shouldna be; there's but ae thing I thocht ye were not--a coward. And as to that, ye've no the pluck to sa)ye're sorry when, God knows, ye might be. I canna thrash ye this day. But ye shall gae nae mair to school. I send ye there to learn. Ye'll not learn--ye've learnt naethin' except disobedience to me-ye shall stop at hame and work."
His father's rare emotion, his broken voice and working face, moved David as all the stripes and jeers had failed to do. His conscience smote him. For the first time in his life it dimly dawned on him that, perhaps, his father, too, had some ground for complaint; that, perhaps, he was not a good son.
He half turned.
"Feyther--"
"Git oot o' ma sight!" M'Adam cried.
And the boy turned and went.
Chapter VI. A LICKING OR A LIE
THENCEFORWARD David buckled down to work at home, and in one point only father and son resembled--industry. A drunkard M'Adam was, but a drone, no.
The boy worked at the Grange with tireless, indomitable energy; yet he could never satisfy his father.
The little man would stand, a sneer on his face and his thin lips contemptuously curled, and flout the lad's brave labors.
Is he no a gran' worker, Wullie? 'Tis a pleasure to watch him, his hands in his pockets, his eyes turned heavenward!" as the boy snatched a hard-earned moment's rest. "You and I, Wullie, we'll brak' oorsel's slavin' for him while he looks on and laffs."
And so on, the whole day through, week in, week out; till he sickened with weariness of it all.
In his darkest hours David thought sometimes to run away. He was miserably alone on the cold bosom of the world. The very fact that he was the son of his father isolated him in the Daleland. Naturally of a reserved disposition, he had no single friend outside Kenmuir. And it was only the thought of his friends there that witheld him. He could not bring himself to part from them; they were all he had in the world.
So he worked on at the Grange, miserably, doggedly, taking blows and abuse alike in burning silence. But every evening, when work was ended, he stepped off to his other home beyond the Stony Bottom. And on Sundays and holidays--for of these latter he took, unasking, what he knew to be his due-- all day long, from cock-crowing to the going down of the sun, he would pass at Kenmuir. In this one matter the hoy was invincibly stubborn. Nothing his father could say or do sufficed to break him of the habit. He endured everything with white-lipped, silent dogged-ness, and still held on his way.
Once past the Stony Bottom, he threw his troubles behind him with a courage that did him honor. Of all the people at Kenmuir two only ever dreamed the whole depth of his unhappiness, and that not through David. James Moore suspected something of it all, for he knew more of M'Adam than did the others. While Owd Bob knew it as did no one else. He could tell it from the touch of the boy's hand on his head; and the story was writ large upon his face for a dog to read. And he would follow the lad about with a compassion in his sad gray eyes greater than words.
David might well compare his gray friend at Kenmuir with that other at the Grange.
The Tailless Tyke had now grown into an immense dog, heavy of muscle and huge of bone. A great bull head; undershot