Bob Son of Battle [55]
alike insufferable.
"By thunder! I'll teach yo' to come spyin' on me!" roared David. Above him on the mantel-piece blazed the Shepherds' Trophy. Searching any missile in his fury, he reached up a hand for it.
Ay, gie it me back, Ye robbed me o't," the little man cried, holding out his arms as if to receive it.
"Dinna, David," pleaded Maggie, with restraining hand on her lover's arm.
"By the Lord! I'll give him something!" yelled the boy. Close by there stood a pail of soapy water. He seized it, swung it, and slashed its contents at the leering face in the window.
The little man started back, but the dirty torrent caught him and soused him through. The bucket followed, struck him full on the chest, and rolled him over in the mud. After it with a rush came David.
"I'll let yo' know, spyin' on me!" he yelled. "I'll--" Maggie, whose face was as white now as it had been crimson, clung to him, kxampering him.
"Dinna, David, dinna!" she implored. "He's ycr am dad."
"I'll dad him! I'll learn him!" roared David half through the window.
At the moment Sam'l Todd came floundering furiously round the corner, closely followed by 'Enry and oor Job.
"Is he dead?" shouted Sam'l seeing the prostrate form.
"Ho! ho!" went the other two.
They picked up the draggled little man and hustled him out of the yard like a thief, a man on either side and a man behind.
As they forced him through the gate, he struggled round.
"By Him that made ye! ye shall pay for this, David M'Adam, you and yer--"
But Sam'l's big hand descended on his mouth, and he was borne away before that last ill word had flitted into being.
Chapter XXI. HORROR OF DARKNESS
IT was long past dark that night when M'Adam staggered home.
All that evening at the Sylvester Arms his imprecations against David had made even the hardest shudder. James Moore, Owd Bob, and the Dale Cup were for once forgotten as, in his passion, he cursed his son.
The Dalesmen gathered fearfully away from the little dripping madman. For once these men, whom, as a rule, no such geyser outbursts could quell, were dumb before him; only now and then shooting furtive glances in his direction, as though on the brink of some daring enterprise of which he was the objective. But M'Adam noticed nothing, suspected nothing.
When, at length, he lurched into the kitchen of the Grange, there was no light and the fire burnt low. So dark was the room that a white riband of paper pinned on to the table escaped his remark.
The little man sat down heavily, his clothes still sodden, and resumed his tireless anathema.
"I've tholed mair fra him, Wullie, than Adam M'Adam ever thocht to thole from ony man. And noo it's gane past bearin'. He struck me, Wullie! struck his airi father. Ye see it yersel', Wullie. Na, ye werena there. Oh, gin ye had but bin, Wullie! Him and his madam! But I'll gar him ken Adam M'Adam. I'll stan' nae mair!"
He sprang to his feet and, reaching up with trembling hands, pulled down the old bell-mouthed blunderbuss that hung above the mantelpiece.
"We'll mak' an end to't, Wullie, so we will, aince and for a'!" And he banged the weapon down upon the table. It lay right athwart that slip of still condemning paper, yet the little man saw it not.
Resuming his seat, he prepared to wait. His hand sought the pocket of his coat, and fingered tenderly a small stone bottle, the fond companion of his widowhood. He pulled it out, uncorked it, and took a long pull; then placed it on the table by his side.
Gradually the gray head lolled; the shrivelled hand dropped and hung limply down, the finger-tips brushing the floor; and he dozed off into a heavy sleep, while Red Wull watched at his feet.
It was not till an hour later that David returned home.
As he approached the lightless house, standing in the darkness like a body with the spirit fled, he could but contrast this dreary home of his with the bright kitchen and cheery faces he had left.
Entering the house, he groped to the kitchen door and opened it; then struck a match and stood in
"By thunder! I'll teach yo' to come spyin' on me!" roared David. Above him on the mantel-piece blazed the Shepherds' Trophy. Searching any missile in his fury, he reached up a hand for it.
Ay, gie it me back, Ye robbed me o't," the little man cried, holding out his arms as if to receive it.
"Dinna, David," pleaded Maggie, with restraining hand on her lover's arm.
"By the Lord! I'll give him something!" yelled the boy. Close by there stood a pail of soapy water. He seized it, swung it, and slashed its contents at the leering face in the window.
The little man started back, but the dirty torrent caught him and soused him through. The bucket followed, struck him full on the chest, and rolled him over in the mud. After it with a rush came David.
"I'll let yo' know, spyin' on me!" he yelled. "I'll--" Maggie, whose face was as white now as it had been crimson, clung to him, kxampering him.
"Dinna, David, dinna!" she implored. "He's ycr am dad."
"I'll dad him! I'll learn him!" roared David half through the window.
At the moment Sam'l Todd came floundering furiously round the corner, closely followed by 'Enry and oor Job.
"Is he dead?" shouted Sam'l seeing the prostrate form.
"Ho! ho!" went the other two.
They picked up the draggled little man and hustled him out of the yard like a thief, a man on either side and a man behind.
As they forced him through the gate, he struggled round.
"By Him that made ye! ye shall pay for this, David M'Adam, you and yer--"
But Sam'l's big hand descended on his mouth, and he was borne away before that last ill word had flitted into being.
Chapter XXI. HORROR OF DARKNESS
IT was long past dark that night when M'Adam staggered home.
All that evening at the Sylvester Arms his imprecations against David had made even the hardest shudder. James Moore, Owd Bob, and the Dale Cup were for once forgotten as, in his passion, he cursed his son.
The Dalesmen gathered fearfully away from the little dripping madman. For once these men, whom, as a rule, no such geyser outbursts could quell, were dumb before him; only now and then shooting furtive glances in his direction, as though on the brink of some daring enterprise of which he was the objective. But M'Adam noticed nothing, suspected nothing.
When, at length, he lurched into the kitchen of the Grange, there was no light and the fire burnt low. So dark was the room that a white riband of paper pinned on to the table escaped his remark.
The little man sat down heavily, his clothes still sodden, and resumed his tireless anathema.
"I've tholed mair fra him, Wullie, than Adam M'Adam ever thocht to thole from ony man. And noo it's gane past bearin'. He struck me, Wullie! struck his airi father. Ye see it yersel', Wullie. Na, ye werena there. Oh, gin ye had but bin, Wullie! Him and his madam! But I'll gar him ken Adam M'Adam. I'll stan' nae mair!"
He sprang to his feet and, reaching up with trembling hands, pulled down the old bell-mouthed blunderbuss that hung above the mantelpiece.
"We'll mak' an end to't, Wullie, so we will, aince and for a'!" And he banged the weapon down upon the table. It lay right athwart that slip of still condemning paper, yet the little man saw it not.
Resuming his seat, he prepared to wait. His hand sought the pocket of his coat, and fingered tenderly a small stone bottle, the fond companion of his widowhood. He pulled it out, uncorked it, and took a long pull; then placed it on the table by his side.
Gradually the gray head lolled; the shrivelled hand dropped and hung limply down, the finger-tips brushing the floor; and he dozed off into a heavy sleep, while Red Wull watched at his feet.
It was not till an hour later that David returned home.
As he approached the lightless house, standing in the darkness like a body with the spirit fled, he could but contrast this dreary home of his with the bright kitchen and cheery faces he had left.
Entering the house, he groped to the kitchen door and opened it; then struck a match and stood in