“And what wad ye mean by that?” his father cried. “Nay; I was but thinkin' that Mr. Moore's Bob'll look gradely writ under yon.” He pointed to the vacant space below Red Wull's name. The little man put the Cup back on its pedestal with hurried hands. The handkerchief dropped unconsidered to the floor; he turned and sprang furiously at the boy, who stood against the wall, still smiling; and, seizing him by the collar of his coat, shook him to and fro with fiery energy. “So ye're hopin', prayin', nae doot, that James Moore--curse him!--will win ma Cup awa' from me, yer ain dad. I wonder ye're no 'shamed to crass ma door! Ye live on me; ye suck ma blood, ye foul-mouthed leech. Wullie and me brak' oorsel's to keep ye in hoose and hame--and what's yer gratitude? Ye plot to rob us of oor rights.” He dropped the boy's coat and stood back. “No rights about it,” said David, still keeping his temper. “If I win is it no ma right as muckle as ony Englishman's?” Red Wull, who had heard the rising voices, came trotting in, scowled at David, and took his stand beside his master. “Ah, _if_ yo' win it,” said David, with significant emphasis on the conjunction. “And wha's to beat us?” David looked at his father in well-affected surprise. “I tell yo' Owd Bob's rinin',” he answered. “And what if he is?” the other cried. “Why, even yo' should know so much,” the boy sneered. The little man could not fail to understand. “So that's it!” he said. Then, in a scream, with one finger pointing to the great dog: “And what o' him? What'll ma Wullie be doin' the while? Tell me that, and ha' a care! Mind ye, he stan's here hearkenin'!” And, indeed, the Tailless Tyke was bristling for battle. David did not like the look of things; and edged away toward the door. “What'll Wullie be doin', ye chicken-hearted brock?” his father cried. “Im?” said the boy, now close on the door. “Im!” he said, with a slow contempt that made the red bristles quiver on the dog's neck. “Lookin' on, I should think--lookin' on. What else is he fit for? I tell yo' oor Bob--” “--'Oor Bob'!” screamed the little man darting forward. “'Oor Bob'! Hark to him. I'll 'oor--' At him, Wullie! at him!” But the Tailless Tyke needed no encouragement. With a harsh roar he sprang through the air, only to crash against the closing door! The outer door banged, and in another second a mocking finger tapped on the windowpane. “Better luck to the two on yo' next time!” laughed a scornful voice; and David ran down the hill toward Kenmuir. Chapter XII. HOW RED WULL HELD THE BRIDGE