"Oh, I don't know," I said, "but—er—have I had the pleasure of meeting you before?"
"Bah!" said he, hastily dancing a strathspey, "ma fute is on ma native dew, ma name is Roderick; I am," he continued, drawing himself up to the full height of his figure, which was about six inches, "I am the Speerit o' Scottish Literature."
"Oh, I know you now," I said, "you're the spirit men call the Small Scotch."
"Where will ye find the Small Scotch that's fu' sax inches in height?" answered Roderick, with asperity.
"Oh, I beg your pardon," I said. "But I didn't ring for you, did I?"
"I'm no slave o' the ring," proudly answered Roderick, as he broke into the opening steps of a complicated sword-dance. "I came of my ain sweet will, just to improve your mind."
"That's very kind," said I; "will you take a chair, or a tumbler?"
The Spirit hissed angrily, as if a small soda had been poured over him, and I prudently abstained from further interruptions.
As some of my readers are perhaps less fluently acquainted with the Scotch than myself, I take the liberty of translating into English the conversation which ensued.