“For you ain’t good-looking, are you, sir?”
“Not at all, Rasp,” laughed the other. “We should neither of us get the prize for beauty, eh, Rasp?”
“I should think not,” said Rasp: “but I always was the ugliest man our way. I think she took to you because you were so straight, and stout, and strong.”
“Perhaps so, Rasp.”
“I’ve heerd say, as the more gentle, and soft, and tender a woman is, the more she likes a fellow as is all big bone and muscle, so as to take care of her, you know. That must ha’ been it, sir,” continued the old fellow, chuckling, “unless she took a fancy to your name. Ho! ho! ho!”
“No, I don’t think it was that, Rasp, my man,” said the other, quietly.
“More don’t I, sir; Dutch Pug. Ho! ho! ho!”
“Dutch Drayson Pugh, Master Rasp.”
“Pug’s bad enough,” said the old fellow; “but Dutch! What did they call you Dutch for?”
“It was a whim of my father,” said the other. “My grandfather married a lady in Holland, and in memory of the alliance my father said—so I’ve often been told—that as I was a fair, sturdy little fellow, like a Dutch burgomaster in miniature, I should be called Dutch; and that is my name, Mr Rasp, at your service.”