"Eh?" exclaimed the little man. "Did you speak to me? My name is Scotch, as you very well know—Professor Horace Scotch."
"Wa-al," drawled Old Rocks, with a sly grin, "I reckons I has heard them yar boys call yer Hot Scotch enough to know whut yer handle is."
"Those boys are very disrespectful—very! They should be called to account. I object to such familiarity from others, sir—I distinctly object."
Old Rocks grunted derisively, having come to regard the timid little man with contempt, which was natural with him, as he looked with disfavor on all "tenderfeet."
That grunt stirred the blood of the quick-tempered little man, who sat up, snapping:
"I should think there was a pig somewhere round, by the sounds I hear!"
The guide grunted again.
"I detest pigs!" fumed Scotch. "They're always grunting."
"Thar's only one thing I dislike wuss'n pigs," observed Old Rocks, lazily.
"What is that, sir; what is that?"