Her Comp. Well, but they kill chickens, occasionally.
The Lady P. Not with a horrid gun; and, besides, that's such a totally different thing.
The Chatty P. What do you call that mountain, driver, eh?
Driver. Yon hell? I'm no minding its name.
The Surly P. You don't seem very ready in pointing out the objects of interests on the route, I must say.
Driver (modestly). There'll be them on the corch that know as much aboot it as myself. (After a pause—to vindicate his character as a cicerone.) Did ye nottice a bit building at the end of the loch over yonder?
The Surly P. No, I didn't.
Driver. Ye might ha' seen it, had ye looked.
[He relapses into a contented silence.