“Hands aff, Mr. David, immediate!” she cried indignantly. “'Pertinence, indeed!” as she tossed her head clear of the big fingers that were fondling her pretty hair. So it was that M'Adam, on coming quietly into the kitchen one day, was consumed with angry resentment to find David actually handling the object of his reverence; and the manner of his doing it added a thousandfold to the offence. The boy was lolling indolently against the mantelpiece, his fair head shoved right into the Cup, his breath dimming its lustre, and his two hands, big and dirty, slowly revolving it before his eyes. Bursting with indignation, the little man crept up behind the boy. David was reading through the long list of winners. “Theer's the first on 'em,” he muttered, shooting out his tongue to indicate the locality: “'Andrew Moore's Rough, 178--.' And theer agin--' James Moore's Pinch, 179--.' And agin--'Beck, 182--.' Ah, and theer's 'im Tammas tells on! 'Rex, 183--,' and Rex, 183--.' Ay, but he was a rare un by all tell-in's! If he'd nob'but won but onst agin! Ah, and theer's none like the Gray Dogs--they all says that, and I say so masel'; none like the Gray Dogs o' Kenmuir, bless 'em! And we'll win agin too--” he broke off short; his eye had travelled down to the last name on the list. “'M'Adam's Wull'!” he read with unspeakable contempt, and put his great thumb across the name as though to wipe it out. “'M'Adam's Wull'! Goo' gracious sakes! P-hg-h-r-r! “--and he made a motion as though to spit upon the ground. But a little shoulder was into his side, two small fists were beating at his chest, and a shrill voice was yelling: “Devil! devil! stan' awa'!”--and he was tumbled precipitately away from the mantelpiece, and brought up abruptly against the side-wall. The precious Cup swayed on its ebony stand, the boy's hands, rudely withdrawn, almost overthrowing it. But the little man's first impulse, cursing and screaming though he was, was to steady it. “'M'Adam's Wull'! I wish he was here to teach ye, ye snod-faced, ox-limbed profleegit!” he cried, standing in front of the Cup, his eyes blazing. “Ay, 'M'Adam's Wull'! And why not 'M'Adam's Wull'? Ha' ye ony objections to the name?” “I didn't know yo' was theer,” said David, a thought sheepishly. “Na; or ye'd not ha' said it.” “I'd ha' thought it, though,” muttered the boy. Luckily, however, his father did not hear. He stretched his hands up tenderly for the Cup, lifted it down, and began reverently to polish the dimmed sides with his handkerchief. “Ye're thinkin', nae doot,” he cried, casting up a vicious glance at David, “that Wullie's no gude enough to ha' his name alangside o' they cursed Gray Dogs. Are ye no? Let's ha' the truth for aince--for a diversion.” “Reck'n he's good enough if there's none better,” David replied dispassionately. “And wha should there be better? Tell me that, ye muckle gowk.” David smiled. “Eh, but that'd be long tellin', he said.