M'ADAM'S pride in the great Cup that now graced his kitchen was supreme. It stood alone in the very centre of the mantelpiece, just below the old bell-mouthed blunderbuss that hung upon the wall. The only ornament in the bare room, it shone out in its silvery chastity like the moon in a gloomy sky.

For once the little man was content. Since his mother's death David had never known such peace. It was not that his father became actively kind; rather that he forgot to be actively unkind.

“Not as I care a brazen button one way or t'ither,” the boy informed Maggie.

“Then yo' should,” that proper little person replied.

M'Adam was, indeed, a changed being. He forgot to curse James Moore; he forgot to sneer at Owd Bob; he rarely visited the Sylvester Arms, to the detriment of Jem Burton's pocket and temper; and he was never drunk.

“Soaks 'isseif at home, instead,” suggested Tammas, the prejudiced. But the accusation was untrue.

“Too drunk to git so far,” said Long Kirby, kindly man.

“I reck'n the Cup is kind o' company to him,” said Jim Mason. “Happen it's lonesomeness as drives him here so much.” And happen you were right, charitable Jim.

“Best mak' maist on it while he has it, 'cos he'll not have it for long,” Tammas remarked amid applause.

Even Parson Leggy allowed—rather reluctantly, indeed, for he was but human—that the little man was changed wonderfully for the better.

“But I am afraid it may not last,” he said. “We shall see what happens when Owd Bob beats him for the Cup, as he certainly will. That'll be the critical moment.”

As things were, the little man spent all his spare moments with the Cup between his knees, burnishing it and crooning to Wullie:

“There, Wullie! look at her! is she no bonnie? She shines like a twinkle—twinkle in the sky.” And he would hold it out at arm's length, his head cocked sideways the better to scan its bright beauties.

The little man was very jealous for his treasure. David might not touch it; might not smoke in the kitchen lest the fumes should tarnish its glory; while if he approached too closely he was ordered abruptly away.

“As if I wanted to touch his nasty Cup!” he complained to Maggie. “I'd sooner ony day—”

“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.

“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.