“Ye'd ha' bin willin' enough wi'oot him, if ye'd thocht o't, I grant ye. But ye've no the wits. All there is o' ye has gane to mak' yer muckle body. Hooiver, that's no matter. I'll settle wi' James Moore anither time. I'll settle wi' you noo, David M'Adam.” He paused, and looked the boy over from bead to foot. “So, ye're not only an idler! a wastrel! a liar!”--he spat the words out. “Ye're--God help ye--a thief!” “I'm no thief!” the boy returned hotly. “I did but give to a mon what ma feyther--shame on him!--wrongfully kept from him.” “Wrangfully?” cried the little man, advancing with burning face. “'Twas honorably done, keepin' what wasna your'n to keep! Holdin' back his rights from a man! Ay, if ony one's the thief, it's not me: it's you, I say, you!”--and he looked his father in the face with flashing eyes. “I'm the thief, am I?” cried the other, incoherent with passion. “Though ye're three times ma size, I'll teach ma son to speak so to me.” The old strap, now long disused, hung in the chimney corner. As he spoke the little man sprang back, ripped it from the wall, and, almost before David realized what he was at, had brought it down with a savage slash across his son's shoulders; and as he smote he whistled a shrill, imperative note: “Wullie, Wullie, to me!” David felt the blow through his coat like a bar of hot iron laid across his back. His passion seethed within him; every vein throbbed; every nerve quivered. In a minute he would wipe out, once and for all, the score of years; for the moment, however, there was urgent business on hand. For outside he could hear the quick patter of feet hard-galloping, and the scurry of a huge creature racing madly to a call. With a bound he sprang at the open door; and again the strap came lashing down, and a wild voice: “Quick, Wullie! For God's sake, quick!” David slammed the door to. It shut with a rasping snap; and at the same moment a great body from without thundered against it with terrific violence, and a deep voice roared like the sea when thwarted of its prey. “Too late, agin!” said David, breathing hard; and shot the bolt home with a clang. Then he turned on his father. “Noo,” said he, “man to man!” “Ay,” cried the other, “father to son!” The little man half turned and leapt at the old musketoon hanging on the wall. He missed it, turned again, and struck with the strap full at the other's face. David caught the falling arm at the wrist, hitting it aside with such tremendous force that the bone all but snapped. Then he smote his father a terrible blow on the chest, and the little man staggered back, gasping, into the corner; while the strap dropped from his numbed fingers. Outside Red Wull whined and scratched; but the two men paid no heed. David strode forward; there was murder in his face. The little man saw it: his time was come; but his bitterest foe never impugned Adam M'Adam's courage.