Had Scott been a few years older, he doubtless would have answered,—
"Pemmican."
As it was, however, he responded glibly,—
"Snake meat."
"Hh!" Again there came the sniff. "Snakes don't have meat. They only wiggle."
Scott glared at her, during a moment of speechless hostility. Then suddenly he fired upon her with what was to be the favourite weapon of his later life.
"Prove it!" he ordered her defiantly.
But his defiance fell upon a surface quite impenetrable to its shaft.
"Sha'n't!"
"'Fraid cat!" he retorted curtly.