"Yo're not lookin' at me noo," whispered Maggie to the silent boy by her side.
"Nay; nor niver don't wush to agin." David answered roughly. His gaze was directed over the array of heads in front to where, beyond the Silver Lea, a group of shepherds and their dogs was clustered. While standing apart from the rest, in characteristic isolation, was the bent figure of his father, and beside him the Tailless Tyke.
"Doest'o not want yo' feyther to win?" asked Maggie softly, following his gaze.
"I'm prayin' he'll be beat," the boy answered moodily.
"Eh, Davie, hoo can ye?" cried the girl, shocked.
"It's easy to say, 'Eh, David,' "he snapped. "But if yo' lived along o' them two "--he nodded toward the stream--" 'appen yo'd understand a bit. . . . 'Eh, David,' indeed! I never did!"
"I know it, lad," she said tenderly; and he was appeased.
"He'd give his right hand for his bless'd Wullie to win; I'd give me right arm to see him beat. . . . And oor Bob there all the while,--he nodded to the far left of the line, where stood James Moore and Owd Bob, with Parson Leggy and the Squire.