moment, and he had to go thumbing over the page to find his place. He
caught it again and chanted on--"'At my sover-sover-yne's will. To each
one whom he lists, however unmeet to be the owner's peer.'"

Again the boy waved the fingers and the red wrister at me. Again he
paused, gathering himself for the climax. That gesture was abominable,
but at such a time I dared not interrupt.

"'My castles are my king's alone from turret to foundation stone,'" he
cried. The red wrister flashed beneath my eye. Ira had even forgotten
his book and let it fall to his side. He took a step forward; paused
with one knee bent and the other stiff; extended his right arm and
shouted, "'The hand of Dooglas is his own, and never shall in friendly
grasp the hand of sech as Marmyyon clasp.'"

[Illustration: "'At my sover-sover-yne's will.'"]

Well done, Ira! The proud Marmion must indeed have trembled until his
armor rattled if the Scot bellowed at him in that way and shook a red
wrister so violently under his very nose. Excellent, Ira; you put spirit
in your reading. One can almost picture you beneath Tantallion's towers,
drawing your cloak around you and giving cold respect to the stranger
guest. But why say "Dooglas"?

"S-o-u-p spells soup," answered Ira loftily to my question. "Then
D-o-u-g must spell doog."

"I tell you it's Douglas. 'The hand of Douglas is his own,'" I cried.
At the mention of the doughty Scot I pounded the floor with my crutch and
repeated "Dug--dug--dug."