“Where did your grandfather come from?”
“Hants.”
“What was he doing in Hants?”
“Feeding hogs in the New Forest, perhaps. The place is full of acorns, and I daresay his ancestors were swineherds.”
“Well, you can’t help being a hog-keeper’s son, but I don’t see why you need boast of it. You’re probably wrong, anyhow. If you consulted some philologist, you’d probably learn that Hogg is a French word.”
“Hogg is not a French word. If a man doesn’t like it, he doesn’t have to know me.”
“Well, I don’t like it. And I’m not the only one who doesn’t. Do you wish some day to be called the parent of piglings?”
Jimmy’s face grew much pinker than manganous salts. He knew that his friend was only up to his old tricks, but this was pretty raw stuff. It was rotten bad taste to rag a man about his name—just as bad as to ask questions about a mutilated stump. But Jimmy gave voice to none of these sentiments. His heavy jaw was set, his small lips were compressed until he thought of the proper parliamentary phrase.
“Marvin, I suppose we are all descended from serfs, but I’m not responsible for forms of ridicule indulged in by swineherds of the present day.”
“James, James, I blush to hear you call your philanthropic employer a swineherd.”