The happy days when might ruled right were gone, never to be recalled. David often regretted them, especially when in a conflict of tongues, Maggie, with her quick answers and teasing eyes, was driving him sulky and vanquished from the field. The two were perpetually squabbling now. In the good old days, he remembered bitterly, squabbles between them were unknown. He had never permitted them; any attempt at independent thought or action was as sternly quelled as in the Middle Ages. She must follow where he led on--"Ma word!"Now she was mistress where he had been master; hers was to command, his to obey. In consequence they were perpetually at war. And yet he would sit for hours in the kitchen and watch her, as she went about her business, with solemn, interested eyes, half of admiration, half of amusement. In the end Maggie always turned on him with a little laugh touched with irritation.
"Han't yo' got nothin' better'n that to do, nor lookin' at me?" she asked one Saturday about a month before Cup Day.
"No, I han't," the pert fellow rejoined.
"Then I wish yo' had. It mak's me fair jumpety yo' watchin' me so like ony cat a mouse.""Niver yo' fash yo'sel' account o' me, ma wench," he answered calmly.
"Yo' wench, indeed!" she cried, tossing her head.
"Ay, or will be," he muttered.
"What's that?" she cried, springing round, a flush of color on her face.
"Nowt, my dear. Yo'll know so soon as I want yo' to, yo' may be sure, and no sooner."The girl resumed her baking, half angry, half suspicious.
"I dunno' what yo' mean, Mr. M'Adam," she said.
"Don't yo', Mrs. M'A--
The rest was lost in the crash of a falling plate; whereat David laughed quietly, and asked if he should help pick up the bits.
On the same evening at the Sylvester Arms an announcement was made that knocked the breath out of its hearers.
In the debate that night on the fast-approaching Dale Trials and the relative abilities of red and gray, M'Adam on the one side, and Tammas, backed by Long Kirby and the rest, on the other, had cudgelled each other with more than usual vigor. The controversy rose to fever-heat; abuse succeeded argument; and the little man again and again was hooted into silence.
"It's easy laffin'," he cried at last, "but ye'll laff t'ither side o' yer ugly faces on Cup Day.""Will us, indeed? lJs'll see," came the derisive chorus.
"We'll whip ye till ye're deaf, dumb, and blind, Wullie and I."''Yo'll not!''
"We will!"
The voices were rising like the east wind in March.
"Yo'll not, and for a very good reason too," asseverated Tammas loudly.
"Gie us yer reason, ye muckle liar," cried the little man, turning on him.
"Becos--" began Jim Mason and stopped to rub his nose.
"Yo' 'old yo' noise, Jim," recommended Rob Saunderson.
"Becos--" it was Tammas this time who paused.
"Git on wi' it, ye stammerin' stirk!" cried M'Adam. "Why?""Becos--Owd Bob'll not rin."
Tammas sat back in his chair.
"What!" screamed the little man, thrusting forward.
"What's that!" yelled Long Kirby, leaping to his feet.
"Mon, say it agin!" shouted Rob.
"What's owd addled egg tellin'?" cried Liz Burton.
"Dang his 'ead for him!" shouts Tupper. "Fill his eye!" says Ned Hoppin.
They jostled round the old man's chair:
M'Adam in front; Jem Burton and Long Kirby leaning over his shoulder; Liz behind her father; Saunderson and Tupper tackling him on either side; while the rest peered and elbowed in the rear.
The announcement had fallen like a thunderbolt among them.
Tammas looked slowly up at the little mob of eager faces above him. Pride at the sensation caused by his news struggled in his countenance with genuine sorrow for the matter of it.
"Ay, yo' may well 'earken all on yo'. Tis enough to mak' the deadies listen. I says agin: We's'll no rin oor Bob fot' Cup. And yo' may guess why. Bain't every mon, Mr. M'Adam, as'd pit aside his chanst o' the Cup, and that 'maist a gift for him"--M'Adam's tongue was in his cheek--" and it a certainty," the old man continued warmly, "oot o' respect for his wife's memory."The news was received in utter silence. The shock of the surprise, coupled with the bitterness of the disappointment, froze the slow tongues of his listeners.
Only one small voice broke the stillness.
"Oh, the feelin' man! He should git a reduction o' rent for sic a display o' proper speerit. I'll mind Mr. Hornbut to let auld Sylvester ken o't."Which he did, and would have got a thrashing for his pains had not Cyril Gilbraith thrown him out of the parsonage before the angry cleric could lay hands upon him.
