"Only the pictur' o' some randy quean," his father answered, chucking away at the inanimate chin.
"Gie it me!" David ordered fiercely. "It's mine."
"Na, na," the little man replied. "It's no for sic douce lads as dear David to ha' ony touch wi' leddies sic as this."
"Gie it me, I tell ye, or I'll tak' it!" the boy shouted.
"Na, na; it's ma duty as yer dad to keep ye from sic limmers." He turned, still smiling, to Red Wull.
"There ye are, Wullie!" He threw the photograph to the dog. "Tear her, Wullie, the Jezebel!"
The Tailless Tyke sprang on the picture, placed one big paw in the very centre of the face, forcing it into the muck, and tore a corner off; then he chewed the scrap with unctious, slobbering gluttony, dropped it, and tore a fresh piece.
"Touch it, if ye daur, ye brute!" he yelled; but his father seized him and held him back.
